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PRAISEFORTHE

WRITINGOFPAMELASARGENT

“Sargent is a sensitivewriterofcharacterizationratherthan

cosmicgimmickry.”—PublishersWeekly

“One of the genre’s greatestwriters.”—TheWashingtonPostBook

World

“Pamela Sargent is anexplorer, an innovator. She’salways a few years ahead ofthepack.”—DavidBrin,award-winning

authoroftheUpliftSaga

“Overtheyears,I’vecometoexpect a great deal fromPamela Sargent. Her worldsare deeply and thoroughlyimagined.”—OrsonScottCard,authorof

Ender’sGame

“Pamela Sargent’s cool,incisive eye is as sharp atlong range,visionary talesas

it is when inspecting ourforeground future. She’s oneofourbest.”

—GregoryBenford,astrophysicistandauthorof

Foundation’sFear

“IfyouhavenotreadPamelaSargent, then you shouldmake it your business to doso at once. She is in manyways a pioneer, both as anovelist and as a short story

writer. … She is one of thebest.”—MichaelMoorcock,author

ofElricofMelniboné

“[Sargent is] a consummateprofessional [who] exhibitsanunswervingconsistencyofcraft.”—TheWashingtonPostBook

World

AlienChild

“An excellent piece of work—the development of themystery…iswelldone.Ms.Sargent’s work… is alwaysofinterestandthisbookaddstoherstatureasawriter.”

—AndreNorton,authoroftheSolarQueenseries

“CountonPamelaSargent towrite a science fiction novelthat is both entertaining andtruetohumanemotion.Iwish

I had had this book when Iwas a teen because all theloneliness, all the alienation,all the apartness I felt frommy family would havemademoresense.”—JaneYolen,authorofTheDevil’sArithmeticandCards

ofGrief

“This story of Nita, a girlgrowing up in an insulatedenvironment where she

gradually comes to realizethat she might be the lastperson left on Earth, hasconflict and suspense fromthe beginning. … Vividlydepicted.”

—SchoolLibraryJournal

“This finely crafted worknever falters with falseresolution.…An honest andcompelling examination of‘Whatif…?’”

—PublishersWeekly

“An engaging narrative inSargent’s capable hands. Anessenceofotherworldlinessispresent in the gentleguardians,andsinceSvenandNita are raised solely by thetwo aliens, there is afreshness in their perceptionsof their own species. …Clearly and simply presented—thoughtful—a worthy

addition to any SFcollection.”—VoiceofYouthAdvocates

(VOYA)

“Sargent does not lower herstandards when she writesyoung adult fiction. Like thebest of young adult writers,her artistic standards remainas high as ever, while herstandards of clarity andconcision actually rise. …

The intelligence andresourcefulness she showedin The Shore of Women areundiminishedinAlienChild.”—OrsonScottCard,authorof

Ender’sGame

“Thoughtful, serious, andwritten withoutcondescension, the novelcontains all of the qualitieswehavecometoexpectfromthisauthor.”

—ScienceFictionChronicle

TheGoldenSpace

“Pamela Sargent deals withbig themes—geneticengineering, immortality, theultimate fate of humanity—butshedealswiththeminthecontext of individual humanlives. The Golden SpaceremindsmeofOlafStapledon

in the breadth of its vision,and of Kate Wilhelm in itsability to make characters,even humans in the strangestforms,seemlikerealpeople.”

—JamesGunn,writeranddirectorofthefilm

GuardiansoftheGalaxy

“Clearly, The Golden Spaceis a major intellectualachievement of SF literature.Itwillnotbepossibleforany

honest story of immortalityhereafter to ignore it; it is alandmark.”—TheMagazineofFantasy

&ScienceFiction

“Brilliantly handled—all ofus have got to hand anaccoladetotheauthor.”—A.E.vanVogt,authorof

TheWorldofNull-A

“Sargent writes well, the

many ideas are fresh, andtheirhandlingisintelligenttotheextreme.”—Asimov’sScienceFiction

“What next, after universalimmortalitybecomesafactoflife? Pamela Sargent’sbrilliant book, The GoldenSpace, shatters theimaginative barrier that hasheldstoriesaboutimmortalityto a simplistic pasticcio of

boredom, degeneration, andsuicide.”

—TheSeattleTimes

TheMountainCage

“[Sargent] is one of ourfield’s true virtuosos, and inThe Mountain Cage: andOther Stories she gives usthirteen stunningperformances, a valuable

addition to a repertoire that Ihopewillkeepongrowing.”—JamesMorrow,authorofOnlyBegottenDaughter

TheShoreofWomen

“That rare creature, a perfectbook.”—OrsonScottCard,authorof

Ender’sGame

“A cautionary tale, well-

written, with excellentcharacterization, a fine lovestory, as well as much foodfor thought … An elegantsciencefictionnovel.”—AnneMcCaffrey,authorof

thePernseries

“Pamela Sargent givesmeticulous attention to abelievable scenario. … Acaptivatingtalebothfromtheaspect of the lessons that the

author tries to impart andfromtheskillsshehasusedtotellit.”

—RockyMountainNews

“How many perfect sciencefiction novels have I read?Notmany.There are atmostthreeor foursuchworks inadecade.PamelaSargent’sTheShoreofWomenisoneofthefew perfect novels of the1980s. … Her story of a

woman exiled from a safehigh-tech city ofwomen, theman ordered by the gods tokillher,andtheirsearchforaplace of safety, is powerful,beautiful,andtrue.”—TheMagazineofFantasy

&ScienceFiction

“A compelling andemotionallyinvolvingnovel.”

—PublishersWeekly

“I applaud Ms. Sargent’sambitionandadmire thewayshehasunflinchinglypursuedthelogicofhervision.”

—TheNewYorkTimes

RuleroftheSky

“This formidably researchedand exquisitelywritten novelis surely destined to beknown hereafter as the

definitive history of the lifeand times and conquests ofGenghis, mightiest ofKhans.”—GaryJennings,bestselling

authorofAztec

“Scholarly without everseemingpedantic,thebookisfascinating from cover tocover and does admirablejustice to a man who mightvery well be called history’s

single most importantcharacter.”

—ElizabethMarshallThomas,anthropologistandauthorofReindeerMoon

ChildofVenus

“Masterful… as in previousbooks, Sargent brings herworldtolifewithsympatheticcharacters and crisp concise

language.”—PublishersWeekly

TheMountainCage

andOtherStories

PamelaSargent

Introduction:

THEOTHERPERCEIVER

byBarryN.Malzberg

“The Summer’s Dust” is aremarkable achievement, anovelette of stunningimplication, probably theonly turn on A.J. Budrys’s“The End of Summer” and

the theme of medicallyinduced immortality itselfwhich significantly advancesthe theme. This is reallysomething, I thought, readingitandwhenIwasdoneturnedto the copyright page: wasthis original to the volume?Published in the late 1990s?Surelyaworkthisimpressivecould only be very recent. Ifit were not recent, it wouldhave been embedded in thecanonofthegenreandI,self-

appointed expert andcustodianwould have knownitwell.But no, it’s neither that

recent nor is it embedded inthe canon. “The Summer’sDust,” a story of tragicdimension whose tragedycouldonlyhavebeenrealizedin terms of science fiction(takeoutthescienceanditalltopples)waspublishedinTheMagazine of Fantasy &ScienceFictioninJuly,1981.

This story is over twodecadesold.Shocking. Truly troubling.

Okay, we cannot readeverythingourfriendspublish(and Pamela Sargent, a greatwriter,is,moreimportantlytome, my friend) and it isincreasingly difficult as weage,astimecontractsandtheundone expands to keepconstant the way that waspossible when all the worldwasfreshandaliveandtobe

an aspirant writer was thevery heaven.But a story thisfine,thiscentraltoeverythingto which science fictionaspires? Why was thisunknown to me? Amortification, to be sure, butthis goes beyondmortification. For more thanthree decades, PamelaSargent has been puttingwork like this into thepublicforum,andtoolittlehasbeenmade of much. Yes, “Danny

GoestoMars”inthisvolumewonaNebulaAwardin1993,nosmallaccomplishmentandno small recognition either.But there is somethinganomalous to thepresenceofthat award on the vita sheet;PamelaSargent’s record:oneNebula final ballot, one win.OneHugofinalballot(forthesame story): second place.Notable: this is an efficientwriter. But the paucity ofawards nominations, the

relative lack of criticalrecognition in her owncountry, this is unreasonable.Sargent’s is another of thosecareers whose relativevisibility functionsas reproofof modern publishing,readership,criticalapparatus.Well, if we don’t like the

public, then “Wehave to geta whole new electorate” assome politician is reputed tohavesaidtoH.L.Mencken.Isay “in her own country”

because Sargent was acelebrity in Spain when herSpanishpublisherbroughthertothecountrysomeyearsagofor a series of lectures andappearances. She waspursuedonthestreetsforherautograph, lionized; she isregarded in Spain as one ofthe great American writers.Whyshehasnotobtainedthatkind of honor in her owncountry is not clear.Remember that remark about

“reproof.”“The Novella Race,” I am

happy to say, I do know. Itappeared in one of the latterOrbit volumes in the mid-1970s,adevastating,deadpanportrait of fiction writing aseventanddeadend.Itsetsup—and isnonethelesssuperiorto—my own collaborationwith Bill Pron2ini on thesubject, “Prose Bowl.” Anifty, devastating story inwhich your faithful

undersigned, imperfectlymasked, can be sensedmaking dilatory progressthrough the competition, oneofthemoredisaffectedofthecontestants.Through all of these thirty

years, Pamela Sargent haskeptworking.Thisisasignaland remarkable achievement:itisbettertobeagoodpersonthantobeagoodwriter(onewould like to be both, ofcourse) and Pamela Sargent,

that great writer, is a personof even greater quality.Throughinsultsandpublisherderangements, throughmalfeasance, pomp and theswagger of fools, she hasstayed on, she has done herwork,shehasbeenmorethandutiful.Indomitable!This,thethird of her collections—andI do notminimize the others—is signatory, anaccomplishment.I really should have read

“TheSummer’sDust”twentyyears ago. Rectify mystupidity or languor: read atonce and prayerfully. Herwork itself is intense, arigorous, an embracingprayer.

NewJersey:April2001

THESLEEPING

SERPENT1

Yesuntai Noyan arrived inYeke Geren in early winter,stumbling fromhis shipwiththe unsteady gait and thepallor of a man who hadrecently crossed the ocean.Because Yesuntai was a sonofourKhan,ourcommander

Michel Bahadur welcomedthe young prince withspeechesandfeasts.Wordsofgratitude for our hospitalityfell from Yesuntai’s lipsduring these ceremonies, buthis restless gaze betrayed hisimpatience. Yesuntai’smother, I had heard, wasFrankish, and he had aFrank’sheight,buthissharp-bonedface,darkslitsofeyes,and sturdy frame were aMongol’s.

At the last of the feasts,Michel Bahadur seated menext to the Khan’s son, anhonorIhadnotexpected.Thecommander, I supposed, hadtold Yesuntai a little aboutme, andwould expectme todivert the young man withtales ofmy earlier life in thenorthern woods. As the menaroundussangandshoutedtoservants for more wine,Yesuntaileanedtowardme.“I hear,” he murmured,

“that I can learn much fromyou, Jirandai Bahadur.Michel tells me that no manknows this land better thanyou.”“I am flattered by such

praise.”Imadethesignofthecrossovermywine,as Ihadgrownused todoing inYekeGeren. Yesuntai dipped hisfingers into his cup, thensprinkled a blessing to thespirits. Apparently hefollowed our old faith, and

not the cross; I foundmyselfthinking a little more highlyofhim.“I am also told,” Yesuntai

went on, “that you can tellmany tales of a northernpeoplecalledtheHiroquois.”“That is only the name our

Franksuseforall thenationsoftheLongHouse.”Igulpeddown more wine. “Once, Isaw my knowledge of thatpeople as something thatmight guide us in our

dealingswiththem.Nowitisonly fodder on which menseeking a night’sentertainmentfeed.”TheNoyanliftedhisbrows.

“I will not ask you to shareyourstorieswithmehere.”Inodded,relieved.“Perhaps

we might hunt togethersometime, Noyan. TwoperegrinesIhavetrainedneedtesting, and youmight enjoyadaywiththem.”Hesmiled.“Tomorrow,”he

said, “and preferably byourselves, Bahadur. There ismuchIwishtoaskyou.”Yesuntaiwassoonspeaking

more freely with the othermen,andevenjoinedthemintheir songs.Michelwouldbepleased that I had lifted theNoyan’sspirits,butbythenIcared little for what thatBahadurthought.Idrankandthoughtofotherfeastssharedinside long houses with mybrothers in the northern

forests.

Yesuntai came to mydwelling before dawn. I hadexpected an entourage,despite his words abouthuntingbyourselves, but theKhan’s son was alone. Hegulped down the broth mywifeElgigeteioffered,clearlyimpatienttorideoutfromthesettlement.We saddled our horses

quickly. The sky was almostas gray as the slate-coloredwings of the falcons wecarriedonourwrists, but theclouds told me that snowwould not fall before dusk. Icould forgetYekeGerenandthe life I had chosen for oneday, until the shadows ofeveningfell.We rode east, skirting the

horsesgrazinginthelandoursettlers had cleared, thenmoved north. A small bird

was flying towardagroveoftrees; Yesuntai loosed hisfalcon.The peregrine soared,a streakagainst thegraysky,herdarkwingsscimitars,thensuddenly plummeted towardherprey.TheNoyan laughedas her yellow talons caughtthebird.Yesuntai galloped after the

peregrine. I spied a rabbitdarting across the frost-covered ground, and slippedthetetherfrommyfalcon;he

streaked toward his game. Ifollowed, pondering what IknewaboutYesuntai.Hehadgrown up in the ordus andgreat cities of our PrankishKhanate, been tutored by thelearned men of Paris, andwouldhavepassedtherestofhis time in drinking, dicing,card-playing, and claimingthose women who struck hisfancy. His father, SukegeiKhan, numbered twograndsons of Genghis Khan

amonghisancestors,butIdidnot expect Yesuntai to showthe vigor of those greatforefathers. He was theKhan’s son by one of hisminor wives, and I had seensuch men before in YekeGeren,minorsonsofEjensorgenerals who came to thisnew land for loot and glory,but who settled for huntingalong the great river to thenorth, tradingwith thenearertribes, and occasionally

raiding an Inglistani farm.Yesuntai would be nodifferent;soIthoughtthen.He was intent on his sport

that day. By afternoon, thecarcassesofseveralbirdsandrabbits hung from oursaddles. He had said little tome, and was silent as wetethered our birds, but I hadfelt him watching me.Perhaps he would ask me toguide him and some of hismen on a hunt beyond this

smallisland,beforetheworstof the winter weather came.The people living in theregions nearby would nottrouble hunters. Our treatywith the Ganeagaono, theEastern Gatekeepers of theLong House, protected us,and they had long sincesubdued the tribes to thesouthoftheirlands.We trotted south. Some of

the men watching the horseherds were squatting around

firesneartheirsheltersoftreebranches and hides. Theygreeted us aswepassed, andcongratulatedusonourgame.In the distance, the roundedbark houses of Yeke Gerenwere visible in the eveninglight,woodenbowlscrownedby plumes of smoke risingfromtheirroofs.The Great Camp—the first

of our peoplewhohad cometo this land had given YekeGeren its name. “We will

build a great camp,” CherenNoyan had said when hestepped from his ship, andnowcirclesof roundwoodenhouses covered the southernpart of the island the LongHousepeoplecalledGanono,while our horses hadpasturage in the north. Ourdwellings were much likethoseoftheManhatanpeoplewhohad livedhere,whohadgreeted our ships, fed us,sheltered us, and then lost

theirislandtous.Yesuntaireinedinhishorse

aswenearedYekeGeren;heseemed reluctant to return tothe Great Camp. “This hasbeen themost pleasant day Ihavepassedhere,”hesaid.“Ihavealsoenjoyedmyself,

Noyan.” My horse halted athis side. “You would ofcourse find better huntingaway from this island.Perhaps—”“Ididnotcomehereonlyto

hunt,Bahadur.Ihaveanotherpurposeinmind.WhenItoldMichel Bahadur of what Iwish to do, he said that youwere theman to adviseme.”He paused. “My father theKhan grows ever moredispleased with his enemiesthe Inglistanis.He fears that,weak as they are, they maygrowstrongerhere.HisspiesinInglistantellhimthatmoreof them intend to cross thewaterandsettlehere.”

Iglancedathim.Allof theInglistani settlements, exceptfor the port they calledPlymouth,satalongthecoastnorth of the long island thatlaytotheeastofYekeGeren.Afewsmalltowns,andsomeoutlying farms—I could notsee why our Khan would beso concerned with them. Itwas unfortunate that theywere there, but our raids ontheir westernmost farms hadkept them from encroaching

on our territory, and if theytried to settle farther north,they would have to contendwiththenativepeoplesthere.“If more come,” I said,

“then more of the wretcheswill die during the winter.They would not havesurvivedthislongwithouttheaid of the tribes aroundthem.”Someof thosepeoplehadpaiddearlyforaidingthesettlers, succumbing to thepestilencestheInglistanishad

broughtwiththem.“Theywillcomewithmore

soldiers and muskets. Theywill pollute this land withtheir presence.TheKhanmyfather will conquer theirwretched island, and thepeople of Eire will aid us torid themselves of theInglistani yoke. My father’svictory will be tarnished iftoo many of the island dogsfind refuge here. They mustberootedout.”

“So you wish to be rid ofthe Inglistani settlements.” Ifingered the tether hangingfrommy falcon. “We do nothavethemenforsuchatask.”“We do not,” he admitted,

“but the peoples of theselandsdo.”He interested me. Perhaps

there was some iron in hissoul after all. “Only theHodenosaunee, the LongHousenations,canhelpyou,”I said, “and Idonotknow if

theywill.TheInglistanisposeno threat to thepowerof theLongHouse.”“Michel toldmewehavea

treatywiththatpeople.”“We have an agreement

with the Ganeagaono, whoare one of their five nations.OncetheLongHousePeoplefought among themselves,until their great chiefsDeganawida and Hayawathaunited them. They arepowerful enough now to

ignoretheInglistanis.”Yesuntai gazed at the bird

that clutched his gauntletedwrist. “What if theybelievedthe Inglistanis might moveagainstthem?”“Theymightact,”Ireplied.

“The Hodenosaunee have notreatieswith that people.Butthey might think they havesomething to gain from theInglistani presence.We havenever given firearms to thepeople here, but the

Inglistanis do so when theythink it’s to their advantage.By making war on theInglistani settlements, youmightonlydrivethemintoanalliancewiththeLongHouseanditssubjecttribes,onethatmightthreatenus.”“We must strike hard and

exterminatethelot,”Yesuntaimuttered. “Then we mustmakecertain thatnomoreofthewretches ever set footontheseshores.”

“You will need the LongHousePeopletodoit.”“I must do it, one way or

another.TheKhanmy fatherhas made his will known. Ihavehis orders,markedwithhis seal. He will takeInglistan,andwewilldestroyits outposts here. There canbe no peace with those whohavenotsubmittedtous—theYasa commands it. Inglistanhas not submitted, so it willbeforcedtobow.”

Iwas thinking thatSukegeiKhanworried toomuch overthat pack of island-dwellers.SurelyHispania, evenwith abrother Khan ruling there,was more of a threat to himthan Inglistan. I had heardmanytalesof thesplendorofSuleiman Khan’s court, ofslavesandgoldthatstreamedtoGranadaandCordobafromthecontinent toour south,oflands taken by the HispanicKhan’s conquistadors. The

Hispanianswereasferventinspreading their faith as inseizing loot. In little morethan sixty years, it was saidthat as many mosques stoodin the Aztec capital ofTenochtftian as in Cordobaitself. Suleiman Khan, withAfrican kings as vassals andconquests in this newworld,dreamedofbeingthegreatestof theEuropeanKhans.Howeasy it had been for him toallow us settlements in the

north while he claimed thericherlandstothesouth.But I was a Bahadur of

YekeGeren,who knew onlywhat others told me ofEurope. My Khanate was aland I barely remembered,and our ancient Mongolhomeland no more than asetting for legends and talestold by travelers. The Ejensof the Altan Uruk, thedescendants of GenghisKhan,stillsenttheirtributeto

Karakorum, but the bonds ofour Yasa, the laws thegreatestofmenhadgivenus,rested more lightly on theirshoulders.Theymightbowtothe Kha-Khan of ourhomeland, but many of theKhans ruled lands greaterthan his.A timemight comewhen the Khans of the westwould break their remainingtiestotheeast.“Europe!” I cleared my

throat. “Sometimes I wonder

whatourKhanswilldowhenall their enemies arevanquished.”Yesuntaishookhishead.“I

will say this—my ancestorGenghis Khan would havewondered at what we arenow. I have known Noyanswho go no farther to huntthan the parks around theirdwellings, and others whopreferbrocadesandperfumedlace to a sheepskin coat andfelt boots. Europe has

weakenedus.SomethinkasIdo, that we should becomewhat we were, but there islittlechanceofthatthere.”Snow was sifting from the

sky. I urged my horse on;Yesuntaikeptnearme.

By the time we reached mycircle of houses, the fallingsnow had become a curtainveiling all but the nearestdwellings from our sight.

CourtesyrequiredthatIofferYesuntai ameal, and a placetosleepifthesnowcontinuedto fall. He accepted myhospitality readily; Isuspected there wasmore hewantedtoaskme.We halted at the dwelling

next to mine. Except for ahorse-drawn wagon carryingawinemerchant’sbarrels,thewinding roadswere empty. Ishouted to my servants; twoboys hurried outside to take

the peregrines and our gamefrom us. A shadowy formstirred near the dwelling. Isquinted,thenrecognizedoneofmyManhatanservants.Helay in the snow, his handsaroundabottle.Anger welled inside me. I

toldoneoftheboystogettheManhatan to his house, thenwent after the wagon. Thedriver slowed to a stop as Ireached him. I seized hiscollar and dragged him from

hisseat.Hecursedashesprawledin

the snow. “I warned youbefore,” I said. “You are nottobringyourwinehere.”He struggled to his feet,

clutching his hat. “To yourManhatans, Bahadur—that’swhat you said. Iwas passingby,andthoughtothersamongyour households might haveneedof some refreshment. Isit my fault if your nativesentreatmefor—”

Iraisedmywhip.“Youhadonewarning,”Isaid.“ThisisthelastIshallgiveyou.”“Youhavenoreason—”“Come back to my circle,

Gerard, and I will take thiswhip to you. If you arefortunate enough to survivethatbeating—”“You cannot stop their

cravings, Bahadur.” Heglaredupatmewithhispaleeyes.“Youcannotkeepthemfrom seeking me out

elsewhere.”“Iwillnotmakeiteasierfor

themtopoisonthemselves.”Iflourished the whip; hebacked away from me.“Leave.”Hewadedthroughthesnow

to his wagon. I rode back tomy dwelling. Yesuntai hadtied his horse to a post; hewas silent as I unsaddledmymount.I led him inside. Elgigetei

greeted us; she was alone,

and my wife’s glazed eyesand slurred speech told methat she had been drinking.YesuntaiandIsatonabenchin thebackof thehouse, justbeyond the hearth fire.Elgigeteibroughtuswineandfish soup. Iwaited forher totake food for herself and tojoinus,butshesettledonthefloornearourson’scradle towork at a hide. Her motherhadbeenaManhatanwoman,and Elgigetei’s brown face

and thick black braids hadreminded me of Dasiyu, thewife I had left among theGaneagaono. I had thoughther beautiful once, butElgigetei had theweaknessesof the Manhatan people, thelaziness,thecravingfordrinkthat had wasted so many ofthem.Shescrapedatherhidelistlessly, then leaned overAjiragha’s cradle to murmurto our son in the Manhatantongue. I had never bothered

to learn the language. It wasuseless to master the speechof a peoplewhowould soonnotexist.“You are welcome to stay

here tonight,” I said to theNoyan.“I am grateful for this

snowstorm,” he murmured.“Itwill giveusmore time totalk. I havemuch to ask youstillabouttheHiroquois.”Heleaned back against thewall.“In Khanbalik, there are

scholarsintheKhitanKhan’scourt who believe that theforefathers of the people inthese lands came here longagofromtheregionsnorthofKhitai,perhapsevenfromourancestral grounds. Thesescholars claim that once aland bridge far to the northlinkedthis landtoSibir.SoIwas told by travelers whospoketothoselearnedmeninKhitai.”“It is an intriguing notion,

Noyan.”“If such people carry the

seed of our ancestors, theremaybegreatnessinthem.”I sipped my wine. “But of

coursetherecanbenopeopleasgreatasweMongols.”“Greatness may slip from

our grasp. Koko MongkeTengri meant for us to rulethe world, yet we may losethestrengthtoholdit.”Imadeasignasheinvoked

thenameofourancientGod,

then bowed my head.Yesuntai lifted his brows. “Ithought you were aChristian.”“Iwas baptized,” I said. “I

have prayed in other wayssince then. The Long HousePeople callGodHawenneyu,the Great Spirit, but He isTengri by another name. Itmatters not how a manprays.”“Thatistrue,butmanywho

follow the cross or the

crescent believe otherwise.”Yesuntai sighed. “Long ago,my ancestor Genghis Khanthought ofmaking the worldour pasturage, but thenlearnedthathecouldnotruleitwithoutmasteringthewaysofthelandshehadwon.Nowthosewaysaremasteringus.”He gazed at me with hisrestlessdarkeyes.“Whenwehave slaughtered theInglistanis here, more of ourpeople will come to settle

these lands. In time,wemayhave to subdue thosewecallour friends. More will beclaimedhereforourKhanateand, if all goes well, myfather’s sons and grandsonswill havemoreof thewealththis land offers. Our priestswill come, itching to spreadthewordofChristamongthenatives, and traders willbargain for what we do nottake outright. Do you findthisapleasingprospect?”

“I must serve my Khan,” Ireplied. His eyes narrowed,and I sensed that he sawmytruethoughts.Therewerestilltimes when I dreamed ofabandoning what I had hereand vanishing into thenorthernforests.He said, “An ocean lies

between us and Europe. Itmay become easier for thosewho are here to forget theKhanate.”“Perhaps.”

“I am told,” Yesuntai saidthen,“thatyoulivedforsometime among the Long HousePeople.”My throat tightened. “I

dwelled with theGaneagaono, the Owners ofthe Flint. Perhaps MichelBahadurtoldyouthestory.”“Onlythatyoulivedamong

them.”“It is a long tale, but Iwill

try to make it shorter. Myfather and I came to these

shores soon after we foundthis island—we were in oneoftheshipsthatfollowedthefirst expedition. CherenNoyan had secured YekeGeren by then. I was ninewhenwearrived,myfather’syoungest son. We camealone, withoutmymother orhis second wife—he washoping to return to Calais aricher man.” I recalled littleof that journey, only that thesightofthevastwhite-capped

sea terrified me whenever Iwaswellenough togoupondeck to help the men watchfor Inglistanipirates.PerhapsYesuntaihadalsotrembledatbeing adrift on that wateryplain, but I did not wish tospeakofmyfeartohim.“Ayearafterwegothere,”I

wenton,“CherenNoyansentan expedition upriver.Hendrick, one of our Dutchsailors,captainedtheship.Hewas tomap the river and see

how far it ran, whether itmight offer us a passagewaywest.My father was orderedto join the expedition, andbrought me along. I wasgrateful for the chance to bewiththemen.”Yesuntai nodded. “As any

boywouldbe.”“We went north until we

came to the region theGaneagaonocallSkanechtade—‘Beyond the Openings’—andanchoredthere.Weknew

that the Flint People werefiercewarriors.Thepeopletothe south of their lands livedin terror of them, and havegiven them the name ofMohawk,theEatersofMen’sFlesh, but we had been toldtheOwnersoftheFlintwouldwelcomestrangerswhocameto them in peace. Hendrickthought it wise to secure atreatywiththembeforegoingfarther, and having anagreement with the

Ganeagaono would also giveusabondwiththeotherfournationsoftheLongHouse.”I swallowed more wine.

Yesuntai was still, but hiseyes kept searching me. Hewould want to know whatsort of man I was beforeentrusting himself tome, butIstillknewlittleabouthim.Ifelt somehow that hewantedmore than allies in acampaign against theInglistanis, but pushed that

notionaside.“Some of us,” I said,

“rowed to shore in ourlongboats. A fewGaneagaono warriors hadspied us, and we madeourselves understood withhand gestures. They took usto their village. Everyonethere greeteduswarmly, andopenedtheirhousestous.Allmight have gone well, butafter we ate their food, ourmen offered them wine. We

should have known better,afterseeingwhatstrongdrinkcould do to the Manhatan.The Flint People have nohead for wine, and our menwouldhavedonewelltostaysober.”I stared at the earthen floor

and was silent for a time. “Iam not certain how ithappened,” I continued atlast, “but our meeting endedinviolence.Afewofourmendiedwith tomahawks in their

heads.Mostoftheothersfledto the boats. You may callthemcowards for that,but toseeamanoftheFlintPeoplein the throes of drunkennesswould terrify the bravest ofsoldiers. They were wild—the wine is poison to them.They were not like theManhatan, who grow sleepyand calmly trade even theirown children for strongdrink.”“Goon,”Yesuntaisaid.

“My father and I wereamong those who did notescape.TheGaneagaono hadlost men during the brawl,and now saw us as enemies.They began their tortures.They assailed my father andhis comrades with fire andwhips—they cut pieces offlesh from them, dining onthemwhiletheircaptivesstilllived,and tore thenails fromtheir hands with hot pincers.My father bore his torment

bravely,buttheothersdidnotbehave as Mongols should,and their deaths were notglorious.” I closed my eyesfor a moment, rememberingthe sound of their shriekswhenthechildrenhadthrownburning coals on their stakedbodies.Ihadnotknownthenwhom Ihatedmore, themenforlosingtheircourageorthechildrenfortheircruelty.“I am sorry to hear it,”

Yesuntaisaid.

“OnlymyfatherandIwereleft alive. They forced us torun through thevillagewhilerows of people struck at uswithwhips and heavy sticks.Themenwentatusfirst,thenthe women, and after themthe children. I did notunderstand then that theywere honoring us by doingthis. My father’s woundsrobbed him of life, but Isurvived the beatings, and itwasthenthattheGaneagaono

mademe one of them. Iwastaken to a house, given to awoman who admired thecouragemyfatherhadshownduring the torture, and wasmadeamemberoftheirDeerClan.My fostermother gavemethenameofSenadondo.”“Andafterthat?”heasked.“Anothershipcameupriver

notlongafter.Weexpectedawarparty,butCherenNoyanwas wise enough to sendenvoys out from the ship to

seek peace. Because I knewthe Ganeagaono tongue bythen, I was useful as aninterpreter. The envoysbegged forgiveness, sayingthat theirmenwere toblameforviolatingthehospitalityofthe Flint People, so all wentwell.Intheyearstofollow,Ioften dealt with the traderswhocametousofferingclothand iron for furs and beaverpelts—they did notmake themistake of bringing wine

again.Afteratime,IsawthatI might be of more use tobothmyownpeople andmyadoptivebrothersifIreturnedto Yeke Geren. TheGaneagaono said farewell tome and sent me back withmanygifts.”Speaking of the past made

me long for the northernwoods, for the spirits thatsang in the mountain pines,for the sight of long housesandfieldsofcorn,forDasiyu,

whohadrefusedtocomewithme or to let our son departwithme.Theboybelongedtoher Wolf Clan, not to mine;hisdestinywaslinkedtohers.It had always been that wayamong the Long HousePeople. I had promised toreturn,andshehadcalledmypromise a lie.Her lastwordstomewereacurse.“I might almost think,”

Yesuntaisaid,“thatyouwishyouwereamongthosepeople

now.”“Isthatsostrange,Noyan?”“They killed your father,

and brought you muchsuffering.”“Webrought that fateupon

ourselves.Ifmyfather’sspirithadnotflownfromhim,theywould have let him live, andhonored him as one of theirown.IlosteverythingIknew,but from the time theGaneagaono adopted me,they treated me only with

kindnessandrespect.Doyouunderstand?”“I think I do. The children

of many who fought againstus now serve us. Yet youchose to return here,Jirandai.”“Wehadatreaty.TheFlint

People do not forget theirtreaties—they are markedwiththestringsofbeadstheycall wampum, which theirwisemenalwayshaveintheirkeeping.” Even as I spoke, I

wondered if, in the end, myexilewouldproveuseless.Howfullofprideandhope

I had been, thinking thatmyefforts would preserve thepeacebetweenthisoutpostoftheKhanate and thepeople Ihadcometolove.Iwouldbe,soIbelieved,thevoiceoftheGaneagaono in the Mongolcouncils. But my voice wasoften ignored, and I hadfinally seen what lay behindCheren Noyan’s offer of

peace. A treaty would givehis men time to learn moreabout the Long House andany weaknesses that couldlaterbeexploited.Eventually,more soldierswouldcome towrest more of these landsfromthenatives.OurKhan’sminions might eventuallysettle the lands to the north,and make the Long HousePeople as wretched as theManhatans.“Icameback,” Icontinued,

“so that our Noyans andBahadurs would rememberthe promises recorded on thebelts we exchanged with theOwners of the Flint. Weswore peace, and I am thepledge of that peace, for theGaneagaono promised thattheywouldbeboundtousinfriendship for as long as Iremained both their brotherand theKhan’s servant. Thatpromise lives here.” I struckmy chest. “But some of our

people are not somindful ofourpromises.”Yesuntai nodded. “It is the

Europeaninfluence,Bahadur.Our ancestors kept the oathsthey swore, and despisedliars,but theEuropeans twistwords and often call lies thetruth.” He took a breath. “Iwill speak freely to you,Jirandai Bahadur. I have notcome here only to rid thisland of Inglistanis. Europe isfilledwithpeoplewhobowto

the Khans and yet dream ofescaping our yoke. I wouldhate to see them slip fromtheir bonds on these shores.Destroying the Inglistanisettlements will show othersthat they will find no refugehere.”“I can agree with such a

mission,”Isaid.“And your forest brothers

will be rid of a potentialenemy.”“Yes.”

“Willyouleadmetothem?Will you speakmywords tothemandask themto joinusinthiswar?”“Youmay commandme to

doso,Noyan,”Isaid.Heshiftedhisweightonthe

bench. “I would rather haveyour assent. I have alwaysfound that those who freelyoffermetheiroathsservemebetter than thosepressed intoservice, and I imagine youhave your own reasons for

wishingtogonorth.”“I shall go with you, and

willingly.Youwillneedothermen, Noyan. Some in YekeGeren have lost theirdiscipline and might not dowell in the northern forests.They wallow in the fewpleasures this place offers,and mutter that their Khanhasforgottenthem.”“ThenIwill leaveit toyou

tofindgoodmenwholustforbattle.Icantrustthosewhom

Ibroughtwithme.”I took outmy pipe, tapped

tobacco into it from mypouch,litit,andhelditouttoYesuntai. “Will you smoke apipe with me? We shouldmark our coming expeditionwithsomeceremony.”He accepted thepipe, drew

in some smoke, then chokedand gasped for air beforecomposinghimself.Outside,Iheardaman,asailorperhaps,and drunk from the soundof

him, call out to anothermanin Frankish. What purposecould a man find here,waitingforyetanothershiptoarrive with news from theKhanateandbaubles to tradewiththenativesfor thepelts,birds,animals,andplants theKhan’s court craved? I wasnottheonlymanwhothoughtofdesertingYekeGeren.“I look forward to our

journey,”Yesuntaisaid,“andto seeing what lies beyond

thisencampment.”Hesmiledashepassedthepipetome.That spring, with forty of

Yesuntai’s soldiers andtwenty more men I hadchosen,wesailedupriver.

2

The Ganeagaono ofSkanechtade welcomed uswith food. They crowdedaround us as we went fromhousetohouse,neverleaving

us alone evenwhenwewentto relieve ourselves. SeveralmenofmyDeerClancametomeetme, urgingmore of thegame and dried fish theirwomen had prepared uponmeandmycomrades.Bythetime we finished our feast,morepeoplehadarrivedfromthe outlying houses of thevillagetolistentoourwords.Yesuntai left it to me to

urge the war we wanted.After I was empty of

eloquence, we waited in thelong house set aside for ourmen. If the men ofSkanechtade chose thewarpath, they would gatherwar parties and send runnersto the other villages of theGaneagaono to persuademorewarriorstojoinus.Ihadspokenthetruthtothe

people of Skanechtade.Deceitwas not possiblewiththe Ganeagaono, andespecially not for me. I was

still their brother, even afterall the years I thought of asmy exile. The GaneagaonowouldknowIcouldnotlietothem; this war would servethemaswell as us.Whoeverwas not at peace with themwastheirenemy.Inthat,theyweremuch like us.Apeoplewho might threaten theirdomainaswellasourswouldbe banished from the shoresofthisland.Yet my doubts had grown,

not about our mission, butabout what might comeafterward.Moreofourpeoplewould cross the ocean, andthe Bahadurs who followedus to Yeke Geren mightdream of subduing thenations we now called ourfriends. There could be nopeacewiththosewhodidnotsubmittousintheend,andIdid not believe theGaneagaono and the othernations of the Long House

would ever swear an oath toourKhan.I had dwelled on such

thoughts as we sailed north,following the great river thatled to Skanechtade. By thetimewerowedawayfromtheship in our longboats, I hadmade my decision. I woulddo what I could to aidYesuntai, but whatever theoutcome of our mission, Iwould not return to YekeGeren.Myplacewaswiththe

Ganeagaonowhohadgrantedmemylife.“Jirandai,” Yesuntai Noyan

saidsofdy.Hesatinthebackof the long house, his backagainst the wall, his facehidden in shadows; I hadthoughthewasasleep.“Whatdoyouthinktheywilldo?”“Afewof theyoungchiefs

want to join us. That I sawwhen I finishedmy speech.”Some of our men glancedtoward me; most were

sleeping on the benches thatlined the walls. “We willhaveafewbands,atleast.”“Afewbandsareuselessto

me,” Yesuntai muttered. “Araid would only provoke ourenemies. Imusthaveenoughmentodestroythem.”“Ihavedonewhat Ican,” I

replied. “We can only hopemywordshavemovedthem.”Among the Ganeagaono,

thosewhowantedwarhadtoconvince others to follow

them.Thesachemswhoruledtheir councils had no powerto lead in war; I hadexplained that toYesuntai. Itwasuptothechiefsandotherwarriors seeking glory toassemble war parties, but asign that a sachem favoredourenterprisemightpersuademany to join us. I hadwatched the sachems duringmy speech; my son wasamong them. His dark eyeshad not betrayed any of his

thoughts.“I saw how you spoke,

Jirandai,”Yesuntaisaid,“andfelt thepowerinyourwords,even if I did not understandthem.Idonotbelievewewillfail.”“May it be so, Noyan.” I

thoughtthenofthetimeIhadtraveled west with myadoptive father along thegreat trail that runs to thelands of the Nundawaono.There, among the Western

Gatekeepers of the LongHouse nations, I had firstheard the tale of the greatserpent brought down by thethunderbolts of Heno, spiritof storms and rain. In hisdeath throes, the serpent hadtorn the land asunder andcreated the mighty falls intowhich the rapids of theNeahga River flowed. Myfosterfatherhaddoubtsaboutthe story’s ending, althoughhedidnotsaysotoourhosts.

He had stood on a cliff nearthe falls and seen a rainbowarchingabovethetumultuouswaters; he had heard thesteady sound of the torrentandfelttheforceofthewindthat never died. He believedthattheserpentwasnotdead,but only sleeping, andmightrisetoravagethelandagain.Something in Yesuntai

made me think of thatserpent. When he was still,hiseyesdartedrestlessly,and

when he slept, his body wastense, ready to rouse itself atthe slightest disturbance.Something was coiled insidehim, sleeping but ready towake.Voices murmured beyond

the doorway to my right.Some of the Ganeagaonowere still outside. A youngman in a deerskin kilt andbeaded belt entered, thengesturedatme.“You,” he said, “hewho is

called Senadondo.” I liftedmy head at the sound of thenamehispeoplehadgiventome. “I ask you to comewithme,”hecontinuedinhisowntongue.Igot tomy feet and turned

to Yesuntai. “It seemssomeone wishes to speak tome.”He waved a hand. “Then

youmustgo.”“Perhaps some of the men

want to hear more of our

plans.”“Or perhaps a family you

left behind wishes towelcomeyouhome.”InarrowedmyeyesasIleft.

TheNoyanhadheardnothingfrom me about my wife andson, but he knew I hadreturned to Yeke Geren as aman.Hemight have guessedIhadleftawomanhere.

The man who had come for

me led me past clusters ofhouses. Although it wasnearly midnight, with only asliver of moon to light ourway,peoplewerestillawake;I heard them murmuringbeyond the open doors. Aband of children trailed us.Whenever I slowed, theycrowded aroundme to touchmylongcoatortopullatmysilktunic.Wehaltedinfrontofalong

house large enough for three

families.ThesignoftheWolfClanwaspaintedonthedoor.The man motioned to me togo inside, then led thechildrenaway.Atfirst,Ithoughtthehouse

was empty, then heard awhisper near theback.Threebanked fires glowed in thecentral space between thehouse’s bark partitions. Icalled out a greeting; as Ipassed the last partition, Iturned to my right and saw

whowaswaitingforme.Mysonworehisheaddress,

a woven cap from which asingle large eagle featherjutted from a cluster ofsmaller feathers. Braidedbandswithbeadsadornedhisbare arms; rattles hung fromhis belt. My wife wore adeerskin cloak over a dressdecoratedwithbeads.Evenintheshadowsbeyondthefire,Isaw the strands of silver inherdarkhair.

“Dasiyu,”Iwhispered,thenturned to my son.“Teyendanaga.”He shookhis head slightly.

“You forget—I am thesachem Sohaewahah now.”He gestured at one of theblankets that covered thefloor;Isatdown.“I hoped you would come

back,”Dasiyusaid.“Iwishedfor it, yet prayed that youwouldnot.”“Mother,” our son

murmured. She pushed abowl of hommony towardme, then sat back on herheels.“I wanted to come to you

rightaway,”Isaid.“Ididnotknowifyouwerehere.Whenthe men of my own clangreeted me, I feared whatthey might say if I askedabout you, so kept silent. Isearched the crowd for youwhenIwasspeaking.”“I was there,” Dasiyu said,

“sitting behind the sachemsamongthewomen.Youreyesarefailingyou.”I suspected that she had

concealed herself behindothers. “I thought you mighthave another husband bynow.”“I have never divorced

you.”Herfacewasmuchthesame, only lightly markedwithlines.IthoughtofhowImust look to her, leather-faced and broader in the

belly,softenedbytheyearsinYeke Geren. “I have neverplaced the few belongingsyou left with me outside mydoor. You are still myhusband,Senadondo,butitisSohaewahah who asked youtocometothishouse,notI.”Mysonhelduphishand.“I

knewyouwouldreturntous,my father. I saw it in myvision.ItisofthatvisionthatIwishtospeaknow.”That a vision might have

cometohim,Ididnotdoubt.Many spirits lived in theselands, and the Ganeagaono,asdoallwisemen,trusttheirdreams. But evil spirits candeceive men, and even thewise can fail to understandwhatthespiritstellthem.“I would hear of your

vision,”Isaid.“Two summers past, not

long after I becameSohaewahah, I fell ill with afever.Mybodyfought it,but

even after it passed, I couldnot rise frommybed. Itwasthen,afterthefeverwasgone,that I had my vision andknewittobetruth.”Hegazeddirectly at me, his eyessteady. “Beyond mydoorway, I saw a great light,and then three men enteredmy dwelling. One carried abranch, another a redtomahawk,andthethirdborethe shorter bow and thefirestick that are your

people’s weapons. The manholdingthebranchspoke,andI knew that Hawenneyu wasspeaking tome through him.He told me of a stormgatheringintheeast,overtheOjikhadagega, the greatocean your people crossed,andsaid that it threatenedallthe nations of the LongHouse.Hetoldmethatsomeof those who might offer uspeace would bring only thepeaceofdeath.Yethiswords

did not frighten me, for hewentontosaythatmyfatherwouldreturntome,andbringabrothertomyside.”He glanced at his mother,

thenlookedbackatme.“Myfather and the brother hebroughttome,”hecontinued,“would help us stand againstthe coming storm—this wasthe Great Spirit’s promise.When my vision passed, Iwas able to rise. I left myhouse and went through the

village, telling everyone ofwhatIhadbeenshown.Nowyou are here, and the peopleremember what my visionforetold, and yet I see nobrother.”“You have a brother,” I

said, thinking ofAjiragha. “IlefthiminYekeGeren.”“But he is not here at my

side,asmyvisionpromised.”“He is only an infant, and

the Inglistanis are the stormthat threatens you. More of

themwillcrosstheGreatSaltWater.”“Awaragainst themwould

costusmanymen.Wemighttrade with them, as we dowith you. Peace is what wehave always desired—war isonly our way to prove ourcourage and to bring thatpeace about. You shouldknow that, having been oneofus.”“The Inglistanis will make

false promises, and when

moreofthemcome,eventheLong House may fall beforetheir soldiers. You have notreaties with the Inglistanis,so you are in a state of warwith them now. Two of thespiritswhocame toyouboreweapons—the Great Spiritmeansforyoutomakewar.”“But against whom?”

Dasiyu asked. She leanedforward and shook her fist.“Perhaps those who are onyourislandofGanonoarethe

stormthatwillcomeuponus,after we are weakened bybattle with the pale-facedpeopleyouhate.”“Foolish woman,” I

muttered, “I am one of you.Would I comehere tobetrayyou?”Despitemywords,shereminded me of my owndoubts.“Youshouldnothavecome

back,”shesaid.“Whenever Idreamedofyourreturn,Isawyou alone, not with others

seeking to use us for theirownpurposes.Lookatyou—there is nothing of theGaneagaono left in you.Youspeak our words, but yourgarments and yourcompanionsshowwhereyourtrueloyaltylies.”“Youarewrong.”Istaredat

her;shedidnotlookaway.“Ihave never forgotten mybrothershere.”“You come to spy on us.

When you have fought with

our warriors in this battle,you will see our weaknessesmore clearly, the ways inwhichwemight be defeated,andwewillnotbeabletouseyour pale-faced enemiesagainstyou.”“Isthiswhatyouhavebeen

saying to the other women?Have you gone before themen to speak against thiswar?”Dasiyu drew in her breath;

our son clutched her wrist.

“You have said enough,Mother,” he whispered. “Ibelieve what he says. Myvision told me he wouldcome,andthespiritsheldtheweapons ofwar. Perhapsmybrother is meant to join melater.” He got to his feet. “Igo now to add my voice tothecouncils. Itmaybe that Ican persuade those whowaver.Ifwearetofollowthewarpathnow, Iwill set asidemyofficetofightwithyou.”

He left us before I couldspeak. “You will have yourwar,”Dasiyusaid.“Theothersachemswilllistentomyson,andaskhimtospeakforthemto the people. The wise oldwomen will heed his words,because they chose him forhisposition.”“Thiswarwillserveyou.”She scowled, then pushed

thebowlofhommonytowardme. “You insult me byleavingmyfooduntouched.”

Iatesomeofthedriedcorn,then set the bowl down.“Dasiyu, Ididnotcomehereonlytospeakofwar.Isworean oath tomyself that, whenthiscampaignends,Iwillliveamongyouagain.”“And am I to rejoice over

that?”“Cursedwoman, anything I

do would stoke your rage. Iwent back to speak for theLongHouseinourcouncils.Iasked you to come with me,

andyourefused.”“I would have had to

abandon my clan. My sonwould never have beenchosenasasachemthen.Youwould not be promising tostay with us unless youbelieved you have failed asourvoice.”Even after the years apart,

she saw what lay inside me.“Whatever comes,” I said,“myplaceishere.”Shesaidnothing fora long

time. The warmth inside thelong house was growingoppressive.Iopenedmycoat,thentookoffmyheadbandtomopmybrow.“Look at you,” she said,

leaning toward me to touchthe braids coiled behind myears. Her hand brushed thetop of my shaven headlightly.“Youhadsucha finescalplock—how could youhavegivenitup?”Shepokedat my mustache. “I do not

understandwhyamanwouldwant hair over his lip.” Shefingered the fabric of mytunic. “And this—a womanmightwearsuchagarment.IusedtoadmireyousowhenIwatchedyoudance.Youwerethe shortest of the men, butnomanherehad such strongarms and broad shoulders,andnowyouhidethemundertheseclothes.”I drew her tome. Shewas

notas shehadbeen,norwas

I;once,everymoment inherarmshadonlyfed theflamesinside me. Our fires werebanked now, the fever gone,but her welcoming warmthremained.“You have changed in

another way, Senadondo,”she said afterward. “You arenotsohastyasyouwere.”“I am no longer a young

man,Dasiyu.Imustmakethemost of what moments I amgiven.”

She pulled a blanket overus. I held her until she wasasleep;shenestledagainstmeas she once had, her cheekagainst my shoulder, a legloopedaroundmine.Ididnotknow how to keep mypromise to stay with her.Yesuntai might want a spyamongtheFlintPeoplewhenthiscampaignwasconcluded;he might believe I was hismanforthetask.I slept uneasily. A war

whoopawakenedmeatdawn.Islippedawayfrommywife,pulled on my trousers, andwenttothedoor.Ayoung chiefwas running

through the village. Rattleswereboundtohiskneeswithleather bands, and he held aredtomahawk;beadsofblackwampum dangled from hisweapon.Hehaltedinfrontofthe war post, lifted his arm,and embedded the tomahawkin the painted wood. He

began to dance, and othermen raced toward him, untilit seemed most of thevillage’swarriorshadenlistedinthewar.They danced, bodies bent

fromthewaist,armsliftingasiftostrikeenemies,handsouttowardoff attack.Their feetbeat against the ground asdrums throbbed. I sawYesuntai then; he walkedtowardthem,hisheadthrownback, a bow in one hand. I

stepped from the doorway,felt my heels drummingagainst the earth, and joinedthedancers.

3

Yesuntai, a Khan’s son, wasused to absolute obedience.The Ganeagaono, followingthe custom of all the LongHouse people, would obeyanywarchiefs inwhomtheyhadconfidence.Ihadwarned

Yesuntai that no chief couldcommand the Flint People tojoininthiswar,andthateventhewomenwerefreetooffertheiropinionsoftheventure.“Sobeit,”theyoungNoyan

had said to that. “Our ownwomenwerefierceandbravebefore theywere softenedbyother ways, andmy ancestorBortai Khatun often advisedher husband Genghis Khan,althougheven thatgreat ladywould not have dared to

addressawarkuriltai.Ifthesewomen are as formidable asyousay, thentheymusthavebred brave sons.” I wasgratefulforhistolerance.But the people of

Skanechtade had agreed tojoin us, and soon theirmessengers returned fromother villageswithword thatchiefs in every Ganeagaonosettlement had agreed to goon the warpath. My son hadadvised us to follow the

custom of the Hodenosauneewhen all of their nationsfoughtinacommonwar,andto choose two supremecommanders so that therewould be unanimity in alldecisions. Yesuntai, it wasagreed, would command,since he had proposed thiswar,andAroniateka,acousinof my son’s, would beYesuntai’sequal.Aroniateka,happily, was a man avid tolearnanewwayofwarfare.

This was essential to ourpurpose, since to have anychanceagainsttheInglistanis,the Ganeagaono could notfight in their usual fashion.TheLongHousepeoplewerestill new to organizedcampaigns with manywarriors, and most of theirbattles had been little morethan raids by small parties.Theirmenwere used towar,which, along with the hunt,wastheirfavoritepursuit,but

thiswarwould bemore thanaritualtestofvalor.The Flint People had

acquired horses from us intrade, but had never usedthem in warfare. Theirwarriorsmovedsorapidlyonfoot through the forests thatmountswouldonlyslowtheirprogress. We would have totravel on foot, and take anyhorses we might need laterfromtheInglistanis.ThemenI had chosen in Yeke Geren

had hunted and traded withthe Hodenosaunee, and wereused to their ways. ThoseYesuntai had brought wereveterans of Europeancampaigns, but willing toadapt.The whoops of

Skanechtade’s warriorsechoedthroughthevillageasthey danced. The womenbusied themselves makingmoccasins and preparingprovisions for their men.

Runners moved betweenvillageswiththeordersofourtwo commanders andreturned with promises thatthe other war parties wouldfollow them.Yesuntaiwouldhave preferredmore time forplanning, to send out morescouts before we leftGaneagaono territory,butwehadlittle time.Warhadbeendeclared, and our allieswereimpatienttofight.Weneededa swift victory over our

enemy. If we did not defeattheInglistanisbylateautumn,the Ganeagaono, their honorsatisfied by whatever theyhad won by then, mightabandonus.A chill remained in the

early spring air, but most ofthe Ganeagaono men hadshed the cloaks and blanketsthat covered their upperbodies in winter. OurMongols followed theirexample and stripped to the

waist, and I advisedYesuntai’smen to trade theirfelt boots for moccasins.Dasiyu gaveme a kilt and apair of deerskinmoccasins; Ieasily gave up my MongoltunicandtrousersforthegarbIhadonceworn.Eight days after we had

come to Skanechtade, thewarriors performed their lastwar dance. Men streamedfrom the village toward theriver;Dasiyu followedme to

thehighwall thatsurroundedthe long houses and handedmedriedmeatandapouchofcorn flourmixedwithmaplesugar.“I will come back,” I said,

“whenthiswarisover.”“Ifyouhavevictory,Ishall

welcome you.” She grippedmy arms for amoment, thenletgo.“Ifyousufferdefeat,ifyou and your chief lead ourmen only to ruin, yourbelongingswillbeoutsidemy

door.”“Wewillwin,”Isaid.The lines around her lids

deepenedasshenarrowedhereyes. “See that you do,Senadondo.”

Wecrossedtotheeasternsideofthegreatriver,thenmovedsouth.Someofourscoutshadexplored these oak-coveredhills, and Yesuntai hadplanned his campaign with

theaidofInglistanimapsoursoldiers had taken during araid the year before. Wewould travel south, thenmove east through theMahicanlands,keepingtothenorth of the enemysettlements.Ourforceswouldremain divided during thejourney,soasnottoalerttheInglistanis. Plymouth, theeasternmost enemysettlement, overlooked anocean bay. When Plymouth

was taken, we would movesouth toward another greatbay and the town calledNewport. This settlement layon an island at themouth ofthe bay, and we wouldadvance on it from the east.Any who escaped us wouldbeforcedtofleewest towardCharlestown.A wise commander always

allows his enemy a retreat,sincedesperatedefenderscancost a general many men,

whileasweepbyonewingofhis force can pick offretreatingsoldiers.Wewoulddrive the Inglistanis west.When Charlestown fell, thesurvivors would have to runto the settlement they calledNew Haven. When NewHaven was crushed, onlyNew London, theirwesternmost town, wouldremain, and from there theInglistanis could flee only toterritorycontrolledbyus.

At some point, the enemywas likely to sue for peace,but there could be no peacewiththeInglistanis.Ouralliesand we were agreed; thiswould be a war ofextermination.These were our plans, but

obstacles lay ahead. TheMahicans would present noproblem; as payers of tributeto the Long House, theywould allow us safe passagethrough their lands. But the

Wampanoag people dwelledin the east, and the Pequotscontrolled the trails thatwould lead us south toNewport.Both groups fearedthe Flint People and hadtreaties with the Inglistanis.Ourmenwouldbemorethana match for theirs if theWampanoags and Pequotsfought in defense of theirpale-facedfriends.Butsuchabattlewouldcostuswarriors,and a prolonged battle for

Plymouth would endangerourentirestrategy.Our forces remained

divided as wemoved. Speedis one of a soldier’s greatestallies, so we satisfied ourhunger with our meagerprovisionsanddidnotstoptohunt. At night, when werested, Ganeagaono warriorsmarked the trees with arecord of our numbers andmovements, and we haltedalong the way to read the

markings others had left forus. Yesuntai kept me at hisside. I was teaching him theGaneagaono tongue, but hestill needed me to speak hiswords to his fellowcommanderAroniateka.Inthreedays,wecametoa

Mahican settlement, andalerted the people there withwar cries. Their chiefswelcomed us outside theirstockade, met with us, andcomplainedbitterly about the

Inglistanis,whotheybelievedhad designs on their lands.They had refrained fromraids,notwantingtoprovokethe settlers, but youngerMahicans had chided thechiefs for theircaution.Afterwe spoke of our intentions,several of their men offeredto join us. We had expectedsafe passage, but to havewarriors from among themliftedourspiritsevenhigher.We turned east, and

markings on tree trunks toldusofotherMahicansthathadjoined our forces. Yesuntai,withhisbowcase,quiver,andsword hanging fromhis belt,and his musket over hisshoulder, moved as easilythroughthewoodsasmysonin his kilt and moccasins. Abond was forming betweenthem, and often theycommunicated silently withlooks and gestures, notneeding my words.

Wampanoag territory layahead, yet Yesuntai’sconfidence was notdampened,norwasmyson’s.The Great Spirit ourGaneagaono brethren calledHawenneyu, and thatYesuntai knew under thenameofTengri,wouldguidethem;Isawtheirfaithintheirdark eyes when they liftedtheir heads to gaze throughthe arching tree limbs at thesky. God would give them

victory.4

Godwaswithus.Our scoutswentout,andreturnedwithaWampanoag boy, awretchedcreature with a pinched faceand tattered kilt. A Mahicanwith us knew the boy’stongue,andwesoonheardofthegriefthathadcometohisvillage.Inglistanisoldiershadattacked without warning

onlya fewdaysago, strikingin the nightwhile his peopleslept. The boy guessed thatnearly two hundred of hisWampanoagpeoplehaddied,cut down by swords andfiresticks. He did not knowhow many others hadmanagedtoescape.We mourned with him.

Inwardly, I rejoiced. PerhapstheInglistaniswouldnothaveraided their allies if theyhadknown we were coming

against them, but their rashact served our purpose. Thedeed was proof of their evilintentions; they wouldslaughtereventheirfriendstoclaim what they wanted.Wampanoags who mighthave fought against us nowwelcomed us as theirdeliverers.Yesuntaiconsultedwith Aroniateka, then gavehis orders. The left wing ofour force would strike atPlymouth, using the

Wampanoags as a shield astheyadvanced.The Wampanoags had

acquired muskets from theInglistanis, and now turnedthose weapons against theirfalsefriends.Bythetimemycompanions and I heard thecries of gulls abovePlymouth’s rocky shore, theflames of the dying townlighted our way. Charredhulls and blackened mastsweresinkingbeneaththegray

waters;warriorshadstruckatthe harbor first, approachingit during the night in canoesto burn the ships and cut offanyescapetothesea.Womenleaped from rocks and wereswallowed by waves; otherInglistanis fled from thetown’sburningwalls,onlytobe cut down by our forces.Therewasnoneed to issueacommand to take noprisoners, for the betrayedWampanoags were in no

mood to show mercy. Theydrove their captives intohouses, and set thedwellingsablaze; children becametargetsfortheirarrows.The Flint People do not

leave thespiritsof theirdeadto wander. We painted thebodiesofourdeadcomrades,then buried them with theirweapons and the food theywould need for the longjourney ahead. Above theburial mound, the

Ganeagaono freed birds theyhadcaptured tohelpbear thespirits of the fallen toHeaven,andsetafiretolighttheirway.FromtheruinsofPlymouth,

wesalvagedprovisions,boltsof cloth, and cannons.MuchofthebootywasgiventotheWampanoags, since they hadsuffered most of thecasualties. Having achievedthe swift victory we needed,we loaded the cannons onto

ox-drawn wagons, thenmovedsouth.

5

The center and left wings ofour forces came together aswe entered Pequot territory.The right wing would movetowardCharlestownwhilewestruckatNewport.Parties of warriors fanned

out tostrikeat the farms thatlayinourpath.Wemet little

resistance from the Pequots,andtheysoonunderstoodthatour battle was with theInglistanis, not with them.After hearing of howInglistani soldiers hadmassacred helplessWampanoags, many of theirwarriorsjoinedus,andledustothefarmsofthosetheyhadoncecalledfriends.Thenightwasbrightenedbythefiresofburning houses and crops,and the silence shattered by

thescreamsofthedying.Wetook what we needed andburnedtherest.A few farmers escaped us.

Thetracksoftheirhorsesransouth; Newport would bewarned. The enemy waslikely to think that onlyenraged Wampanoags andPequotsweremovingagainstthembutwouldsurelysendaforce to meet us. We werestill four days’ distance fromthe lowlands that surrounded

Newport’sgreatbaywhenwecaught sight of Inglistanisoldiers.Theyweremassed together

along the trail that ledthrough the forest, marchingstiffly in rows, theirmusketsready. The Wampanoagsfired upon them from thetrees,thenswepttowardthemas the airwas filledwith thesharp cracks of muskets andthe whistling of arrows.Volleys of our metal-tipped

arrows and the flint-headedarrows of the Ganeagaonoflew toward the Inglistanis;enemy soldiers fell, openingup breaks in their line. Menknelttoloadtheirweaponsasothersfiredatusfrombehindthem, and soon the groundwas covered with the bodiesof Wampanoag and Pequotwarriors.The people of these lands

hadneverfacedsuchcarnageinbattle,buttheircouragedid

not fail them. They climbedover the bodies of dead andwounded comrades to fighttheenemyhand-to-hand.Thesoldiers,unabletofireatsuchclose range, used theirmusketsasclubsandslashedatourallieswithswords;mendrenchedinbloodshriekedasthey swung their tomahawks.I expected the Inglistanis toretreat, but they held theirground until the last of theirmenhadfallen.

Wemournedourdead.TheWampanoags and thePequots, who had lost somany men, might havewithdrawnandletusfightonalone. Aroniateka consultedwith their war chiefs, thengave us their answer. Theywouldmarchwith us againstNewport, and share in thatvictory.

6

Swift,earlysuccessesheartenany warrior for the effortsthat lie ahead. We advancedon Newport fueled by thevictorieswehadalreadywon.Summer was upon us as weapproached the southeast endof the great bay. The islandon which Newport stood layto the west, across a narrowchannel; the enemy hadretreated behind the woodenwallsofthetown’sstockade.By day, we concealed

ourselves amid the treesbordering the shore’swedands. At night, theGaneagaono cut down treesand collected rope we hadgathered from Inglistanifarms. Several of Yesuntai’solder officers had experiencein siege warfare; under theirguidance, our allies quicklyerected five catapults. In theearly days of our greatness,we had possessed as littleknowledge of sieges as the

FlintPeople,buttheyseemedmore than willing to masterthisnewart.Wedidnotwanta long siege, but would bepreparedforoneifnecessary.If Newport held out, wewould leave a force behindand move on to our nextobjective.Whenthemoonshowedher

dark side to the earth, webrought out our catapultsunder cover of darkness andlaunched cannonballs at the

five ships anchored inNewport’s harbor, followingthem with missiles of rockpacked with burning driedgrass. The sails of the shipsbecame torches, and moremissilescaughtenemysailorsas they leaped from thedecks.Theshipsweresinkingby the time we turned thecatapults against the town’swalls. The Inglistanis wouldhave no escape by sea andhad lost the ships theymight

haveusedtobombardus.We assaulted Newport for

threedays,untiltheInglistanicannons fell silent. From thewestern side of the island,Inglistanis were soon fleeingin longboats towardCharlestown. There weremany breaches in thestockade’s walls and fewdefenders left in the doomedtownwhenwebegantocrossthechannelinourcanoes,butthosewhoremainedfoughtto

the last man. Even after ourmen were inside the walls,Inglistanis shot at us fromwindows and roofs, and forevery enemy we took there,two or three of our warriorswerelost.Westrippedenemybodies, looted the buildings,then burned the town. Thosehidingon thewesternsideofthebayinCharlestownwouldsee the great bonfire thatwould warn them of theirfate.

The Wampanoags returnedtotheirlandsinthenorth.Weleft the Pequots to guard thebay and to see that no moreInglistani ships landed there.Our right wing would beadvancing on Charlestown.We returned to the bay’seasternshoreandwentnorth,then turned west. A party ofmen bearing the weapons ofwar met us along onewoodland trail, and led us totheir chiefs. By then, the

Narragansett people of theregion had decided to throwintheirlotwithus.

7Terror has always been apowerful weapon againstenemies.Putenoughfearintoan enemy’s heart, andvictories can be won evenbefore one meets him in thefield.Thus itwasduring thatsummer ofwar. Charlestown

fell, ten days after Newport.In spite of the surrender, weexpected some of thesurvivors to hide in theirhousesandtaketheirrevengewhen we entered the town.Instead, they gave up theirweaponsandwaitedpassivelyfor execution. Those Ibeheaded whispered prayersas they knelt and stretchedtheir necks, unable to rousethemselveseven tocurseme.A few gathered enough

courage to beg for theirchildren’slives.Yesuntai was merciful. He

spared some women andchildren, those who lookedmost fearful, led them and afew old men to a longboat,and gave them a message inFrankishtodelivertothoseinNew Haven. The messagewasmuch like the traditionalonesentbyMongolKhanstotheir enemies: God hasannihilated many of you for

daring to stand against us.Submit to us, and serve us.When you see us massedagainst you, surrender andopen your gates to us, for ifyoudonot,Godaloneknowswhatwillhappentoyou.It was easy to imagine the

effect this message wouldhave on New Haven’sdefenders, if the Inglistaniswe had spared survived theirjourney along the coast todeliver it. I did not believe

that the Inglistanis wouldsurrender immediately, butsome among them wouldwant to submit, anddissention would sap theirspirit.Most of our forces moved

west, toward New Haven,followed by Inglistanis wehad spared to carry canoesand haul cannons. Yesuntaihad mastered enough of theFlint People’s language tospeak with Aroniateka, and

left me with the rear guard.Wewould travel to thenorthof themain force,parallelingitspath,andtaketheoutlyingfarms.

Most of the farms we foundwere abandoned. Wesalvaged what we could andburned the rest. Days ofsearching empty farmhousesgave me time to reflect onhow this campaign would

affect my Ganeagaonobrothers.Their past battles had been

for glory, to show theircourage, to bring enemies tosubmission and to captureprisoners who might, in theend, become brothers of theLong House. They had seenthat unity among their FiveNations would make themstronger. Now we wereteaching them that a victoryovercertainenemieswasnot

enough, that sometimes onlythe extermination of thatenemy would end theconflict, that total warmightbe necessary. Perhaps theywould have learned thatlesson without us, but theirknowledge of this new artwouldchangethem,assurelyas the serpent who beguiledthe first man and womanchanged man’s nature. Theymight turn what they hadlearnedagainstus.

Victories can hearten anysoldier, but a respite frombattle can also cause him tolet down his guard. With asmall party led bymy son, Ifollowedaruttedroadtowardone farm. From the treesbeyond the field, where thecornwasstillonlytallenoughtoreachtoaman’swaist,wespied a log dwelling, withsmoke rising from itschimney. A white flagattached to a stick stood

outsidethedoor.“Theywish tosurrender,” I

murmuredtomyson.He shook his head. “The

cornwillhideus.Wecangetcloseenoughto—”“They are willing to give

themselvesup.Yourmenwillhave captives when theyreturn to their homes. TheInglistanishavelost.Yesuntaiwill not object if we sparepeople willing to surrenderwithoutafight.”

Mysonsaid,“Youareonlyweary of killing. My peoplesay that amanweary ofwarisalsowearyoflife.”“The people whose seed I

carry have the same saying.”He had spoken the truth. Iwas tiring of the war I hadhelped to bring about,thinkingofwhatmightfollowit.“Ishallspeaktothem.”“And we will guard your

back,”mysonreplied.I left the trees and circled

the field as the others creptthroughthecorn.WhenIwasseveralpacesfromthedoor,Iheldoutmyhands,palmsup.“Comeoutside,” I shouted inFrankish, hoping my wordswould be understood. “Showyourselves.” I tensed, readyto flingmyself to thegroundif my son and his mensuddenlyattacked.The door opened. A man

with a graying beard left thehouse, followed by a young

girl.Awhitecaphidherhair,but bright golden strandscurledoverherforehead.Shegazedatmesteadilywithherblueeyes;Isawsorrowinherlook, but no fear. A bravespirit, I thought, and felt aheaviness overmy heart thatmighthavebeenpity.The man’s Frankish was

broken, but I was able tograsphiswords.Whateverhispeople had done, he hadalways dealt fairly with the

natives. He asked only to beleft on his farm, to have hislifeandhisfamily’sspared.“It cannot be,” I told him.

“You must leave this place.Mybrotherswilldecideyourfate. That is all I can offeryou, a chance for life awayfromhere.”Theman threw up an arm.

The girl was darting towardthe doorway when I saw aglint of metal beyond awindow.Ablowknockedthe

wind fromme and threwmeonto my back. I clutched atmy ribs and felt blood seepfrommeas theairwas filledwith the sound of warwhoops.Theyhadbeenlyinginwait

for us. Perhaps they wouldnot have fired atme if I hadgranted the man his request;perhaps theyhad intendedanambush all along. I cursedmyself formyweakness andpity. I would have another

scar to remind me ofInglistani treachery and thecost of a moment’s lack ofvigilance,ifIlived.WhenIcametomyself,the

cabin was burning. A manknelt beside me, tending mywounds. Pain stabbed at mealong my right side as Istruggled to breathe. Twobodies in the gray clothes ofInglistani farmers lay outsidethe door. The Ganeagaonowarriorsdancedastheflames

leapedbeforethem.Mysonstrodetowardme,a

scalp of long, golden hairdangling fromhis belt. “Youcostme twomen,”he said. Imovedmyhead fromside toside, unable to speak. “I amsorry,Father.Ithinkthiswarwillbeyourlast.”“Iwilllive,”Isaid.“Yes,youwilllive,butIdo

not think you will fightagain.” He sighed. “Yet Imust forgiveyou, for leading

us to what your people callgreatness.”Heliftedhisheadand cried out, echoing thewarwhoopsofhismen.

8I was carried west on awagon,my ribscoveredwithhealing herbs and boundtightly with Inglistani cloth.Afewmenremainedwithmewhile the rest moved ontoward New Haven. Every

morning,Iwokeexpectingtofind that theyhadabandonedme, only to find them seatedaroundthefire.Aman’spride canbegood

medicine, and the disdain ofothers a goad. I was able towalk when Yesuntai sent aBahadur tomewith news ofNewHaven’s surrender.Fewsoldiers were left in NewHaven;mosthadfledtomakea stand inNewLondon. Theyoung Noyan expected a

fierce battle there, where thevaloroftheInglistaniswouldbe fired by desperation. Hewantedmeathissideassoonaspossible.TheBahadurhadbroughta

spare horse for me. As werode, he muttered of thedifficulties Yesuntai nowfaced.OurNarragansettallieshad remained behind in theirterritory,aswehadexpected,but the Mahicans, sated byglory,werealreadytalkingof

returning to their lands.Theythought they couldwait untilspring to continue the war;they did not understand. Iwondered if the Ganeagaonohad the stomach for a siegethat might last the winter.They would be thinking ofthe coming Green Cornfestival,of theneed to lay ingame for the colder weatherand of the families thatwaitedforthem.The oaks and maples gave

way to more fields theInglistanis had cleared andthenabandoned.Ismelledthesalt of the ocean when wecaught sight of Mongol andMahican sentries outside amakeshift stockade. Yesuntaiwas camped to the east ofNew London, amid rows ofGaneagaono bark shelters. Inthe distance, behind a fogrolling in from the sea, Iglimpsed the walls of thetown.

Yesuntai and Aroniatekawere outside one shelter,sittingatafirewithfourothermen. I heaved myself frommyhorse andwalked towardthem.“Greetings, Jirandai,”

Yesuntai said in Mongol. “Iam pleased to see you haverecoveredenoughtotakepartinourfinaltriumph.”I squatted by the fire and

stretched out my hands. Myribs still pained me; I

suspectedtheyalwayswould.“This is likely to be ourhardestbattle,”Isaid.“Then our glorywill be all

the greaterwhenwewin it.”Yesuntai accepted a pipefromAroniatekaanddrew inthe smoke. “We will takeNew London before theleavesbegintoturn.”“You plan to take it by

storm?” I asked. “That willcostus.”“Imusthave it,whatever it

costs.My fellow commanderAroniateka is equallyimpatientforthiscampaigntoend, as I suspect you are,Bahadur.” His eyes held thesame look I had seen in myson’s outside the burningfarmhouse,thatexpressionofpity mingled with contemptforanoldmantiredofwar.I slept uneasily that night,

plagued by aching musclesstrained by my ride and thepain of my wounds. The

sound of intermittent thunderover the ocean woke mebeforedawn.Icreptfrommyshelter to find other menoutside,shadowsinthemists,andthenknewwhatwewerehearing. The sound was thatof cannons being fired fromships. The Inglistanis wouldturn the weapons of theirshipsagainstus,whatevertherisk to the town.Theywoulddrive us back from the shoreandforceustowithdraw.

Yesuntaihadlefthisshelter.He paced, his arms swingingas if he longed to sweep thefog away. I went to him,knowing how difficult itwould be to persuade him togiveupnow.Aman shoutedin the distance, and anotheranswered himwith awhoop.Yesuntaiwouldhavetoordera retreat, or see menslaughtered to no purpose. Icould still hear the sound ofcannons over the water, and

wonderedwhy theInglistanishadsailednoclosertous.A Mongol and a

Ganeagaono warrior werepushing their way throughknots of men. “Noyan!” theMongol called out toYesuntai. “From the shore, Isawthreeships—theyfly theblue and white banners ofyourfather!Theyhaveturnedtheir weapons against theInglistanis!”The men near us cheered.

Yesuntai’s face was taut, hiseyes slits. He turned to me;his hands trembled as heclaspedmyshoulders.“It seems,” he said softly,

“that we will have to shareourtriumph.”

The ships had sailed to NewLondon from Yeke Geren.Theybombarded the townaswe advanced from the northand east, driving our

remaining Inglistani captivesbefore us against the outerstockade. The sight of thesewretches, crying out inInglistani to their comradesanddyingundertheassaultoftheir own people’s weapons,soon brought New London’scommander to send upwhiteflags.MichelBahadurlefthisship

to accept the surrender. Welearned from him that ourKhan had at last begun his

war against Inglistan thatspring; a ship had broughtMichel the news onlyrecently. By now, he wascertain, theKhanate’s armieswould be marching onLondon itself. Michel hadquicklyseenthathisdutylayin aiding us, now that wewere openly at war with theInglistanis.Michel Bahadur praised

Yesuntai lavishly as theyembracedinthesquareofthe

defeated town. He spoke ofourcourage,butinwordsthatmade it seem that onlyMichel could have given usthis final triumph. I listenedin silence, my mind filledwith harsh thoughts aboutmen who claimed thevictories of others for theirown.

WecelebratedthefallofNewLondon with a feast in the

town hall. Several Inglistaniwomenwhohadsurvivedtheravages of Michel’s menstoodbehindthemtofilltheircups. There were fewbeauties among those wanand narrow-faced creatures,but Michel had claimed apretty dark-haired girl forhimself.He sat among his men,

Yesuntaiathisside,drinkingto our victory. He offeredonlyagrudgingtributetothe

Ganeagaono and theMahicans, and said that theywouldbegiventheirshareofcaptiveswiththeairofamangranting a great favor. I hadchosen to sit with theGaneagaono chiefs, as didmostoftheMongolswhohadfoughtwithus.Michel’smenlaughed when three of theMahican chiefs slid undertables,overcomeby thewineand whiskey. My son,watching them, refused to

drinkfromhiscup.“Comrades!” Michel

bellowed in Frankish. Ibrooded over my wine,wondering what sort ofspeech he would make now.“Our enemies have beencrushed!Isaynowthatinthisplace,wherewedefeated thelast of the Inglistani settlers,we will make a new outpostofourKhanate!NewLondonwill become another greatcamp!”

I stiffened in shock. ThemenaroundMichelfellsilentas theywatchedus.Yesuntaiglanced in my direction; hisfingers tightened around hiscup.“NewLondonwastoburn,”

Yesuntai said at last. “Itwastosuffer the fateof theothersettlements.”“Itwillstand,”Michelsaid,

“to serve your father ourKhan. Surely you cannotobjecttothat,Noyan.”

Yesuntai seemed about tospeak, then sank back in hisseat. Our Narragansett andWampanoagallieswouldfeelbetrayed when they learnedof Michel’s intentions. TheBahadur’s round, crafty faceremindedme of everything Idespised in Europeans: theirgreed, their treachery, theirlies.My son motioned to me,

obviously expecting me totranslate Michel’s words. I

leanedtowardhim.“Listentome,” I said softly in thetongue of the Flint People,“and do nothing rash whenyou hear what I must saynow. The war chief whosailedheretoaidusmeanstocampinthisplace.Hispeoplewillliveinthistownwehavewon.”His hand darted toward his

tomahawk, thenfell.“So thisis why we fought. I shouldhavelistenedtoMotherwhen

shefirstspokeagainstyou.”“I did not know what

MichelBahadurmeant todo,but what happens here willnottroubletheLongHouse.”“Until your people choose

toforgetanotherpromise.”“Iamoneofyou,”Isaid.“You are only an old man

who allowed himself to bedeceived.” He looked awayfrom me. “I know wherehonor lies, even if yourpeople do not. I will not

shame you before your chiefby showing what I think ofhim. I will not break ourtreaty in this place.” Heturned to Aroniateka andwhispered tohim.Thechiefsnear them were still; onlytheireyesrevealedtheirrage.I had fulfilled my duty to

my Khan. All that remainedwas to keep my promise tomyself,andtoDasiyu.

9

I walked along NewLondon’s main street,searching for Yesuntai.Warriors stumbled along thecobblestones, intoxicated bydrink, blind to thecontemptuous stares of ourFrankish and Dutch sailors.The whiskey Michel’s menhad given them from thelooted stores hadmade themforget their villages and thetasksthatawaitedthemthere.

I found Yesuntai with apartyofGaneagaonowarriorsanda fewInglistanicaptives.“These comrades are leavingus,” Yesuntai said. “Youmustsayaneloquentfarewellforme—Istilllackthewordstodoitproperly.”Oneofthemenpulledathis

scalplock.“Itistimeforustogo,” he said in his language.Five Mahicans clutchingbottles of whiskey staggeredpastus.“Toseebravemenin

suchastatesickensme.”Inoddedinagreement.“My

chief Yesuntai will foreverremember your valor. MayGrandfatherHenowateryourfields, the Three Sisters giveyou a great harvest, and thewinter be filled with tales ofyourvictories.”The warriors led their

captives away; two of thesmallerchildrenweptastheyclungtotheirmothers’hands.Theywouldforget their tears

and learn to love the PeopleoftheLongHouse,asIhad.“Therestshouldgohomeas

well,” I said to Yesuntai.“There is nothing for themherenow.”“Perhapsnot.”“They will have stories to

tell of this war for manygenerations.Perhapsthetalesof their exploits can makethem forget how they weretreated here. I wish to speaktoyou,Noyan.”

“Good. I have been hopingforachancetospeaktoyou.”Iledhimalongasidestreet

to the house whereAroniateka andmy sonwerequartered with some of theirmen.Allofthemwereinside,sitting on blankets near thefireplace. At least these menhadresistedthelureofdrink,and had refused the brightbaubles Michel’s men hadthrown to ourwarriorswhileclaiming the greater share of

the booty for themselves.They greeted us withrestraint,anddidnotaskustojointhem.We seated ourselves at a

tableinthebackoftheroom.“I swore an oath to you,YesuntaiNoyan,”Isaid,“andask you to free me from itnow.” I restedmyelbowsonthetable.“IwishtoreturntoSkanechtade, to myGaneagaonobrothers.”He leaned forward. “I

expectedyoutoaskforthat.”“As for my wife Elgigetei

and my son Ajiragha, I askonly that you accept themintoyourhousehold.Mywifewillnotmissmegreatly,andperhaps you can see thatAjiragha does not forget hisfather.Youweremycomradeinarms, and Iwillnot sneakaway from your side in thenight. You do not need menow. Even my son will tellyouthatIamamanwhohas

outlived his taste for battle.You will lose nothing bylettingmego.”“Andwhatwillyoudo,”he

said, “if my people forsaketheirtreaties?”“I think you know the

answertothat.”“Youtoldmeofthetreaty’s

words, that we and the FlintPeoplewouldbeatpeaceforaslongasyouwereboththeirbrother and the Khan’sservant. You will no longer

beourservantifyougobacktoSkanechtade.”“So you are ready to seize

on that. If the men of YekeGeren fail to renew theirpromises,thatwillshowtheirtrue intentions. I had hopedthatyou—”“Listen to me.” Yesuntai’s

fingers closed around mywrist. “I have found mybrothers in your son andAroniateka, and among thebrave men who fought with

us.Theyaremybrothers,notthe rabble who came hereunderMichel’scommand.”“Those men serve your

fathertheKhan.”“They serve themselves,”

he whispered, “and forgetwhatweoncewere.”I shookmyarm freeof his

grasp. He was silent for awhile, then said, “KokoMongke Tengri, the EternalBlue Sky that covers all theworld,promisedusdominion

overEtugen, theEarth.I toldyouofthewisemeninKhitaiwhobelievethattheancestorsof the peoples in these landsonce roamed our ancienthomeland. I know now thatwhat those scholars say istrue.Thepeoplehereareourlong-lost brothers—they aremore trulyMongol thanmenwhosebloodhasbeenthinnedby the ways of Europe. Forthem to rule here is inkeeping with our destiny.

They could make an ulushere,anationasgreatasanywe have known, one thatmight someday be a matchforourKhanates.”I said, “You are speaking

treason.”“I am speaking the truth. I

have had a vision, Jirandai.Thespiritshavespokentomeand shown me two arcsclosing in a great circle,joining those who have beenso long separated. When the

peoples of this land are oneulus, when they achieve theunity our ancestors foundunder Genghis Khan, thenperhapstheywillbetheonestobring the restof theworldunder their sway. If theKhansinourdomainscannotaccept themasbrothers, theymaybeforcedtobowtothemas conquerors.” Yesuntaipaused.“ArewetosweeptheInglistanis from these landsonlysothatmoreofthosewe

rule can flood these shores?TheywillforgettheKhanate,as our people are forgettingtheiroldhomeland.Theywilluse the peoples of this landagainst one another in theirowndisputes,whentheyhaveforgotten their Khan and fallto fighting amongthemselves. I see what mustbe done to prevent that.Youseeit,too.Wehaveonemorebattle to fight before you gobacktoSkanechtade.”

I knew what he wanted.“How do you plan to takeYekeGeren?”Iasked.“We must have Michel’s

ships.MyMongols can manthem. We also need theGaneagaono.” He gazed pastme at themen seated by thefire. “You will speak mywords to your son andAroniateka, and thenwewillact—andsoon.Yourbrotherswill be free of all theirenemies.”

Yesuntai spoke of warringtribesontheothersideoftheworld, tribes that hadwastedthemselvesinbattleswithoneanother until the greatest ofmen had united them underhis standard. He talked of atime long before that, whenother tribes had left themountains, forests, andsteppes of their ancienthomeland to seek new herds

and territories, and of thenorthernlandbridgetheyhadfollowed to a newworld.Hespoke of a great people’sdestiny, of how God meantthemtoruletheworld,andofthosewho,intheaftermathoftheir glory, were forgettingtheir purpose. In the landsthey had conquered, theywould eventually fall outamong themselves; the greatulus of the Mongols wouldfracture into warring states.

God would forsake them.Their brothers in this newworld could reach for therealmthatrightlybelongedtothem.Aroniateka was the first to

speak after I translated theNoyan’s speech. “We have atreaty with your people,” hesaid.“Doyouaskustobreakit?”“We ask that you serve the

son of ourKhan,who is ourrightful leader here,” I

replied. “Those who cameheretoclaimourvictorywilltake the lands we freed forthemselves, and their greedwill drive them north toyours. Michel Bahadur andthemenofYekeGerenhavealready broken the treaty intheirhearts.”“I am a sachem,” my son

said, “and will take up mydutiesagainwhenIamhome.I know what is recorded onthebeltsofwampumourwise

men have in their keeping.Ourtreatybindsusaslongasmy father Senadondo is ourbrotherandtheservantofhisformer people, as long as heisourvoiceamongthem.”“I found that many grew

deaf tomy voice,” I said. “Iwill not go back to live inYeke Geren. I have told mychiefYesuntaithatIwillliveamong the Owners of theFlint until the end of mydays.”

My son met Yesuntai’sgaze. How alike their eyeswere, as cold and dark asthose of a serpent. “Mydreamtoldmethatmyfatherwould bring me a brother,”my son said. “I see mybrother now, sitting beforeme.” I knew then that hewould bring the other chiefstoagreetoourplans.

We secured the ships easily.

Yesuntai’ssoldiersrowedouttothevessels;thefewsailorsleft on board, suspectingnothing, were quicklyovercome. Most of Michel’smen were quartered in theInglistanicommander’shouseand the three nearest it; theywere sleepywith drinkwhenwe struck. Michel and hisofficers were given anhonorable death bystrangulation,andsomeoftheDutch and Frankish sailors

hastily offered their oaths toYesuntai. The others weregiven to the Ganeagaono, tobetorturedandthenburnedatthe stake as we set NewLondonablaze.I sailed with Yesuntai and

his men. The Ganeagaonoand the Mahicans who hadremained with us went weston foot with their Inglistanicaptives. When we reachedthe narrow strait thatseparated Yeke Geren from

the long island ofGawanasegeh, peoplegathered along the cliffs andthe shore to watch us sailsouth toward theharbor.Theships anchored there had nochancetomountaresistance,and we lost only one of ourvesselsinthebattle.Bythen,the Ganeagaono andMahicans had crossed to thenorthern end of Yeke Gerenin canoes, under cover ofnight, and secured the

pasturesthere.Theymight havewithstood

our assault.Theymight havewaitedusout,untilouralliestiredof the siege and the icywinds of winter forced us towithdraw to provision ourships.But toomany inYekeGeren had lost their fightingspirit, and others thought itbetter to throw in their lotwithYesuntai.They surrendered fourteen

dayslater.

About half of the Mongolofficersoffered theiroaths toYesuntai; the rest werebeheaded. Some of theMahicans would remain inwhatwasleftofYekeGeren,secure treatieswith the tribesof Gawanasegeh and thesmaller island to oursouthwest, and see that nomore ships landed there.Thepeopleofthesettlementwere

herded intoropedenclosures.They would be distributedamong the Ganeagaono andtaken north, where the FlintPeople would decide whichof them were worthy ofadoption.I searched among the

captives for Elgigetei andAjiragha.At last an oldmantold me that they had beentaken by a fever only a fewdays before we attacked theharbor. I mourned for them,

but perhaps it was just aswell.My sonmightnothavesurvived the journey north,andDasiyuwouldneverhaveacceptedasecondwife.Ihadthe consolation of knowingthatmydeedshadnotcarriedtheirdeathstothem.

Clouds of migrating birdswere darkening the skieswhenIwentwithYesuntaitoour two remaining ships. A

moundofheads, thoseof theofficerswehad executed, saton the slope leadingdown tothe harbor, a monument toour victory and awarning toanywhotriedtolandthere.The Noyan’s men were

waitingbytheshorewiththesurvivingFrankishandDutchsailors. The ships wereprovisioned with what wecould spare, the sailors readyto board. Men of the seawould be useless in the

northern forests, and men ofuncertain loyalties whoscorned thewaysof theFlintPeoplewouldnotbewelcomethere.Yesuntai beckoned to a

gray-haired captain. “This ismy decree,” he said. “Youwill sail east, and carry thismessage to my father.” Hegesturedwithascroll.“Ishallrecite the message for younow. I will make a Khanateofthisland,butitwillnotbe

sullied by those who wouldbringthesinsofEuropetoitsshores. When an ulus hasrisen here, it will be themightynationofourlong-lostbrothers. Only then will thecircle close, and all ourbrothersbejoined,andonlyifall theKhansaccept themenofthislandastheirequals.Itis thenthatwewill trulyrulethe world, and if my brotherKhansdonotjointhisulusofthe world to come willingly,

only God knows what willbefallthem.”“We cannot go back with

such amessage,” the captainsaid. “Those words will costusourheads.”“Youdishonormyfatherby

saying that. You are myemissaries, and no Khanwould stain his hands withthe blood of ambassadors.”Yesuntaihanded thescroll tothe old man. “These are mywords,markedwithmy seal.

My father the Khan willknow that I have carried outhis orders, that the people ofInglistanwillnotsetfoothereagain.Hewillalsoknowthatthere is no need for hismentocomehere,sinceitisIwhowill secure this newKhanate.” He narrowed hiseyes. “If you do not wish toclaim the Khan’s reward forthismessage, then sailwhereyouwillandfindwhatrefugeyoucan.TheKhanmyfather,

and thosewho followhim tohis throne, will learn of mydestinyintime.”We watched as the sailors

boarded the longboats androwed toward the ships.Yesuntai threw an arm overmy shoulders as we turnedaway from the sea andclimbed toward Yeke Geren.“Jirandai,” hemurmured, “orperhaps I should call youSenadondo now, as yourLongHousebrothersdo.You

must guide me in my newlife.YouwillshowmewhatImust do to become a Khanamongthesepeople.”HewouldnotbemyKhan.I

had served him for the sakeof the Flint People, not tomakehimaKhan,butwouldallow him his dream for alittlewhile.Partofhisvisionwouldcometopass;theLongHouse People would have agreat realm, and Yesuntaimight inspire them to even

greater valor. But I did notbelieve that theHodenosaunee, apeoplewhoallowed all to raise theirvoices in their councils,would ever bow to a Khanandofferhimtotalobedience.My son would honorYesuntai as a brother, butwould never kneel to him.Yesuntai’s sons would beGaneagaono warriors, boundto their mother’s clan, not aMongolprince’sheirs.

I did not say this toYesuntai.Hewouldlearnitintime, or be forced tosurrender his dream to otherleaders who would make ittheir own. The serpent thathad wakened to disturb thelands of the Long Housewould grow, and slipwestwardtomeethistail.

Afterwordto“TheSleeping

Serpent”:Ispentmuchofthelate1980simmersing myself in thehistory and culture ofMongolia, inorder towriteahistoric novel about GenghisKhan.Ashavemanystudentsof Mongol history, I foundmyselfwonderingwhatmighthavehappenedif theMongolarmies, on the verge of even

more victories over theirenemies, had not suddenlywithdrawn from Europe inlate1241.Hadtheycontinuedto move west, their empire,already the largest landempireeverwonbyconquest,might have reached as far asthe Atlantic Ocean, butpolitical necessities in theMongol homeland forcedthem to abandon Europe.OgedeiKhan, the son of andsuccessor to his father,

GenghisKhan,diedsuddenlyin 1241 (reportedly after aprolonged bout of drinking),and the commanders of theMongol forces, by tradition,had to return toMongolia toelect a new Khan. Ogedei’sdeath probably prevented theMongol conquest of allEurope.Whatmight have happened

iftheMongolshadcontinuedwith their string ofEuropeanvictories?What theMongols

couldnotuse,theydestroyed,and many of the lands theyconquered bear the scars oftheir depredation to this day;Central Asia, once irrigatedby a network of canals andwaterways, reverted todesertwhen Mongol invadersdestroyed this irrigationsystem. The history ofconquered Russia, with itsexploitativearistocracy(someof whom claimed descentfrom Genghis Khan) and

oppressed peasantry, offers aglimpse of what all ofEuropean historymight havebeen like if Ogedei had notdied when he did. For onething, theremight have beenno Renaissance in either theartsorthesciences.Inaletterto me, writer and physicistGregory Benford wonderedwhether Western scientificinquiry, in the form that weknow it, would ever havedeveloped if all of Europe

had been overrun by theMongolarmies.It was Greg Benford who

askedmetocontributeastoryto an alternate historyanthologyhewaseditingwithMartin H. Greenberg, WhatMight Have Been: AlternateAmericas, and immediately Ithought of the MongolconquestthatWesternEuropehad so narrowly avoided.Surely the Mongols, sooneror later, would have begun

looking for new conquests,and perhaps the sailing shipsand nautical skills of thepeople theyconqueredwouldeventuallyhavebroughtthemto our shores. It was aninspiration, which had theadditional pleasure ofallowing me to bring theMongols to the island ofManhattan and then up theHudson River to meet theMohawkswhoonceinhabitedmy own home town of

Albany,NewYork.Whichpointsuponeof the

particularjoysofthealternatehistory story: being able tobring people together whocould not possibly have metinour“real”world.

THEMOUNTAINCAGEMewleenhadfoundabrokenmirror along the road. Theshardsglitteredassheswipedat one with her paw, gazingintently at the glass. Shemeowed and hunchedforward.Hrurr licked one pale paw,

wonderingifMewleenwouldmanage toshatter thebarrier,though he doubted that she

could crawl through even ifshedid; themirror fragmentswere too small. He shookhimself, then padded over toherside.Another cat, thick-furred,

stared out at him from ajagged piece of glass. Hrurrtilted his head; the other catdid the same. He meowed;the other cat opened hismouth, but the barrierblocked the sound.A secondcat, black and white,

appeared near the palestranger as Mewleen movedclosertoHrurr.“Shelookslikeyou,”Hrurr

said to his companion. “Sheevenhasawhitepatchonherhead.”“Of course. She is the

Mewleenofthatworld.”Hrurrnarrowedhiseyes.He

had seen such cats before,always behind barriers,always out of reach. Theyremained in theirownworld,

while hewas in this one; hewonderediftheirswasbetter.Mewleen sat on her

haunches. “Do you knowwhatIthink,Hrurr?Therearemoments when we are allbetween worlds, when thesights before us vanish andwestandintheformlessvoidofpossibility.Takeonepath,and a fat mouse might beyours. Take another, and atwo-legsgivesyoumilkandadark place to sleep. Take a

third, and you spend a coldand hungry night. At themoment before choosing, allthese possibilities have thesame reality, but when youtakeonepath—”“When you take one path,

that’s that.”Hrurr stepped tooneside,thenpouncedonhispiece of glass, thinking thathemight catch his other selfunaware, but the cat behindthebarrierleapedupathimatthe same instant. “It means

thatyouweren’tgoingtotaketheotherpathsatall, so theyweren’treallypossibilities.”“But they were for that

moment.” Mewleen’s tailcurled. “I see a branching. Iseeotherworlds inwhichallpossibilitiesexist.I’llgobackhometoday,butthatcattheremaymakeanotherchoice.”Hrurr put a paw on the

shard holding his twin. Thatcatmightstillhaveahome.“Comewithme,”Mewleen

saidassherolledintheroad,showingherwhitebelly.“Mytwo-legged ones will feedyou,andwhentheyseethatIwant you with me, they’llhonor you and let you stay.They must serve me, afterall.”His tail twitched. He had

grown restless even beforelosing his own two-leggedcreatures, before that nightwhenothersoftheirkindhadcome for them, dragging

them from his house andthrowing them inside thegaping mouth of a large,square metal beast. He hadstayed away after that,lingering on the outskirts oftown, pondering what mighthappeninaworldwheretwo-legged ones turned on oneanother and forgot theirobligations to cats. He hadgone back to his house onlyonce; a banner with a blackswastika in its center had

been hung from one of theupperwindows.He had seensuch symbols often, on theupper limbs of two-leggedones or fluttering over thestreets; the wind had twistedthe banner on his house,turningtheswastikafirst intoa soaring bird, then amalformed claw. A strangetwo-legs had chased himaway.“Iwanttoroam,”hereplied

as he gazed up the road,

wondering if it might leadhim to the top of themountain. “I want to see farplaces. It’s no use fighting itwhen I’m compelled towander.”Mewleen bounded toward

him. “Don’t you know whatthismeans?” She gestured atthe broken mirror with hernose.“Whenawindowtotheotherworldisshattered,it’sasign.Thisplaceisanexusofpossibilities, a place where

you might move from oneworld to the next and neverrealize that you are lost toyourownworld.”“Perhaps I’m meant to

perform some task. Thatmight be why I was drawnhere.”“Comewithme.Iofferyou

arefuge.”“I can’t accept, Mewleen.”

Hisearstwitchedashehearda distant purr, which rapidlygrewintoaroar.

Leaping from the road,Hrurr plunged into the grass;Mewleen bounded to theother side as a line of metalbeastspassedthem,creatingawind as they rolled by. Tinyflags bearing swastikasfluttered over the eyes of afewbeasts;pale facespeeredoutfromtheshieldscoveringthecreatures’entrails.As the herd moved on up

the road, he saw thatMewleen had disappeared

amongthetrees.

Hrurr followed the road,slinkingup theslopeuntilhecaught sight of the metalbeasts again. They hadstopped in the middle of theroad; a gate blocked theirprogress.Several two-legged ones in

gray skins stood by the gate;two of them walked over tothe first metal beast and

peered inside its openings,then stepped back, raisingtheir right arms as othersopened the gate and let thefirst beast pass. The twomoved on to the next beast,looking in at theones inside,then raised their arms again.The flapping arms remindedHrurr of birds; he imaginedthe men lifting from theground,armsflappingastheydriftedupinlopsidedflight.He scurried away from the

road. The gray pine needles,dappled by light, cushionedhis feet; ahead of him,winding among the trees, hesawabarbed-wire fence.Hiswhiskers twitched inamusement; such a barriercouldhardlyrestrainhim.Hesqueezed under the lowestwire, carefully avoiding thebarbs.Thelightshifted;patchesof

white appeared among theblackandgray shadows.The

trees overhead sighed as thewind sang. “Cat! Cat!” Thebirds above were calling outtheirwarningsasHrurrsidledalong below. “Watch yournests! Guard your young!Cat!Cat!”“Oh,bequiet,”hemuttered.A blackbird alighted on a

limb, out of reach. Hrurrclawed at the tree trunk,longing to taste blood.“Foolishcat,”thebirdcawed,“I’ve seen your kind in the

cities, crawling throughrubble,scratchingforcrumbsand cowering as the stormsrage and buildings crumble.The two-legged ones gather,andtheworldgrowsdarkerasthe shining eagles shriek andthe metal turtles crawl overthe land. You think you’llescape, but you won’t. Thesoil is ready to receive thedead.”Hrurr clung to the trunk as

the bird fluttered up to a

higher limb. He had heardsuchchatterfromotherbirds,buthadpaiditnomind.“Thatdoesn’t concern me,” hesnarled.“There’snothinglikethat here.” But he wasthinking of the shatteredmirror,andofwhatMewleenhadsaid.“Foolish cat.Do you know

where you are? The two-legged ones have scarred themountain tobuild themselvesa cage, and you are now

insideit.”“No cage can hold me,”

Hrurr cried as the bird flewaway. He jumped to theground,clawingattheearth.Ilive, he thought, I live. Hetookadeepbreath,fillinghislungswithpineyair.The light was beginning to

fade; itwould soonbe night.He hunkered down in theshadows; he would have toprowl for some food. Belowground, burrowing creatures

mumbled sluggishly to oneanother as they prepared forsleep.

In the morning, a quick,darting movement caughtHrurr’s attention. A small,grayishbirdcarelesslylandedin front of him and began topeckattheground.He readied himself, then

lunged, trapping the birdunder his paws. She stared

back at him, eyes wide withterror.Hebaredhisteeth.“Cruel creature,” the bird

said.“Not cruel. I have to eat,

you know.” He had injuredher; she fluttered helplessly.He swattedhergentlywith apaw.“At least be quick about it.

Mypoorheartwillburstwithdespair. Why must you toywithme?”“I’mgivingyouachanceto

prepareyourselffordeath.”“Alas,” the bird sang

mournfully. “My mate willsee me no more, and thewinds will not sing to meagain or lift me to theclouds.”“You will dwell in the

realm of spirits,” Hrurrreplied, “where there are nopredators or prey. Prepareyourself.”Hebitdown;asthebirddied,hethoughtheheardthe flutter of ghostly wings.

“I’msorry,”hewhispered.“Ihave no choice in thesematters.As I prey uponyou,another will prey upon me.The world maintains itsbalance.” He could not hearhersoul’sreply.When he had eaten, he

continued up the slope untilhecametoaclearing.Abovehim, a path wound up themountainside, leading fromaround, stone tower with apointed roof to a distant

chalet. The chalet sprawled;heimaginedthatthetwo-legsinside it was either a largecreatureoronewhoneededalot of space. Creeping up tothe nearer stone structure, heturned and looked down theslope.In the valley, the homes of

the two-legged ones werenow no bigger than his paw;the river running down themountainside was a ribbon.This, he thought, was how

birdssawtheworld.Tothem,a two-legs was only a tinycreaturerootedtotheground;a town was an anthill, andeven the gray, mistymountains before him wereonly mounds. He suddenlyfelt as ifheweregazing intoan abyss, about to beseparatedfromtheworldthatsurroundedhim.He crouched, resting his

head on his paws. Two-legged ones had built the

edifices on this mountain;such creatures were alreadyapart from the world, unableeven to hear what animalssaidtooneanother,incapableof a last, regretfulcommunion with their prey,eating only what was stonedead.Hehadalwaysbelievedthatthetwo-leggedonesweresimplysoullessbeingswhoseinstincts drove them intostrange, incomprehensiblebehavior; they built, tore

down, and built again,moving through theworld asifinadream.Butnow,ashegazedat thevalleybelow,hebegan to wonder if the two-legged ones had deliberatelyseparated themselves fromthe world by an act of will.Those so apart from othersmightcometothinkthattheyruled the world, and theirconstructions, instead ofbeing instinctive, might be adeliberate attempt to mold

whatwas around them.Theymight view all the world ashe viewed the tiny townbelow.This thought was so

disturbing that he boundedup,racingalongthepathandgloryinginhisspeeduntilhedrewclosertothechalet.Histail twitched nervously as hestared at the wide, glassyexpanse on this side of thehouse. Above the widewindowwasaveranda; from

there, he would look nobigger than a mouse—if hecould be seen at all. Fartherup the slope, still otherbuildingswerenestledamongthetrees.His fur prickled; he longed

for Mewleen. Her sharphearingoftenprovokedhertofancies, causing her to readomens in the simplest andmost commonplace ofsounds, but it also made herawareofapproachingdanger.

He wanted her counsel; shemight have been able toperceive something here towhichhewasdeafandblind.Something moved in the

grass. Hrurr stiffened. Asmall, gray catwaswatchinghim. For an instant, hethought that his musingsabout Mewleen had causedthe creature to appear. In thenext instant, he leaped at thecat, snarling as he raised hishair.

“Ha!” thesmallercatcried,nippinghisear.Hrurrswattedhim, narrowly missing hiseyes. They rolled on theground, claws digging intoeach other’s fur. Hrurrmeowed,longingforafight.The other cat suddenly

released him, rolling out ofreach, then hissing as henursed his scratches. Hrurrlicked his paw, hissing back.“You’re no match for me,Kitten.” He waited for a

gestureofsubmission.“You think not? I may be

smaller,butyou’reolder.”“True enough. You’re only

akitten.”“Don’tcallmeakitten.My

name is Ylawl. Kindlyaddressmeproperly.”“You’reakitten.”The other cat raised his

head haughtily. “What areyoudoinghere?”“I might ask the same

questionofyou.”

“IgowhereIplease.”“SodoI.”The younger cat sidled

toward him, but kept hisdistance. “Did a two-legsbring youhere?” he asked atlast.“No,” Hrurr replied. “I

camealone.”Ylawltiltedhishead;Hrurr

thought he saw a gleam ofrespectinhiseyes.“Thenyouareonelikeme.”Ylawlwasstill.Hrurr,eyes

unmovingforamoment,wastrapped in timelessness; theworldbecameagrayfield,asitalwaysdidwhenhedidnotpay attention to it directly.Mewleen had said suchvisions came to all cats. Heflicked his eyes from side toside,andtheworldreturned.“There is something of

importance here,” he said toYlawl.“Afriendofminehastold me that this might be aplace where one can cross

fromoneworldintoanother.”Hewasabouttotelltheothercat of the vision that hadcome to him while he wasgazing at the valley, butcheckedhimself.“It is a cage,” Ylawl

responded,glancingupat thechalet. “Everyday, themetalbeasts crawl up there anddisgorge the two-leggedonesfrom their bellies, allowingthem to gather around thoseinside, and then they crawl

away, only to return. Thesetwo-leggedonesaresoprizedthatmost of thismountain istheirenclosure.”Hrurr stretched. “I would

notwanttobesoprizedthatIwasimprisoned.”“It’s different for a two-

legs.Theyliveastheantsdo,or the bees. Only those notprizedarefreetoroam.”Hrurr thought of his two-

legged creatures who hadbeen taken from him; they

might be roaming even now.He was suddenly irritatedwith Ylawl, who in spite ofhis youth was speaking asthoughhehadacquiredgreatwisdom.Hrurr raisedhis fur,trying to look fierce. “Youare a foolish cat,” he said,crouching, ready to pounce.Ylawl’s tail thrust angrilyfromsidetoside.A short, sharp sound broke

the silence. Hrurr flattenedhis ears; Ylawl’s tail curled

against his body. The barkrangoutoncemore.Ylawl scrambled up and

darted toward a group oftrees, concealing himself inthe shadows; Hrurr followedhim, crouching lowwhen hereached the other cat’s side.“So there are dogs here,” hemuttered. “And you musthide,alongwithme.”“These dogs don’t scare

me,” Ylawl said, but his furwas stiff and his ears were

flatagainsthishead.A female two-legs was

walking down the path,trailed by two others of herkind. A black terrier wasconnectedtoherbyaleash;asecond terrierwas leashed toone of her companions.Hrurr’s whiskers twitchedwith contempt at thosebadgesofslavery.As the group came nearer,

one of the dogs yipped, “Ismellacat,Ismellacat.”He

tugged at his leash as thefemale two-legs held on,crooningsoftly.“So do I,” the second dog

saidashisfemalestruggledtorestrainhim.“Negus!” the two-legs in

theleadcriedoutassheknelt,drawing the dog to her. Shebegan to murmur to him,movingherlipsinthemannersuch creatures used forspeaking. “Is that dog looseagain?”

“I am sure she isn’t,” onefemalereplied.“How she hates my

darlings.IwishBormannhadnever given her to Adolf.”The two-legged one’s mouthtwisted.“There’s a cat nearby,” the

dog said. The two-legs,unable to hear his words,stoodupagain;shewastallerthan her companions, withfair head fur and a smilingface.

“He must listen to thegenerals today, Eva,” one ofthe other females said.Hrurrnarrowed his eyes. He hadneverbeenabletograsptheirtalk entirely, mastering onlythe sounds his two-leggedoneshadusedtoaddresshimortocallhiminsideforfood.“Whytalkofthathere?”the

fair-furred one replied. “Ihavenothingtosayaboutit.Ihave no influence, as youwellknow.”

Herterrierhadwanderedtothe limit of his leash, fartherdown the path toward thehidden cats.Lifting a leg, heurinated on one of thewoodenfencepostsliningthewalkway. “I know you’rethere,”thedogsaid,sniffing.“Ah, Negus,” Ylawl

answered. “I see you andStasi are still imprisoned.Don’t you ever want to befree?”“Free to starve? Free to

wander without a master’sgentlehand?I thinknot.”Hesniffed again. “There isanotherwithyou,Ylawl.”“Anotherfreesoul.”Negus barked, straining at

his leash, but his two-legswas already urging him backtoward the chalet. Ylawlstretched out on his side.“Slavishbeast.”Thegraycatclosedhiseyes.“Hehasevenforgotten his true name, andknows only the one that the

two-legs calls him.” Heyawned. “And the other oneisevenworse.”“Hiscompanionthere?”“No,amuchlargerdogwho

also lives in that enclosure.”Ylawl rolled onto hisstomach, looking up at thechalet. “That one is sobesotted by her two-legs thatshe has begun to lose herabilitytohearourspeech.”“Issuchathingpossible?”“The two-legged ones have

lostit,orneverhadittobeginwith,” Ylawl said. “Theycannot even hear our truenames, much as we shoutthem, and in their ignorancemustcallusbyothersounds.Thosewhodraw tooclose tosuch beingsmay lose such askillaswell.”Hrurrdughisclawsintothe

ground. He had never caredfor dogs, clumsy creatureswhowouldsufferalmostanyindignity,butthethoughtthat

a dog might lose powers ofspeech and hearing drew hispity. Mewleen was right, hethought.He had crossed intoa world where such evilthingscouldhappen.Agrowlroseinhisthroatashecurledhistail.“What’s the matter with

you?”Ylawlasked.“I cannot believe it. A dog

whocannotspeak.”“Youcan’thaveseenmuch

of the world, then. You’re

lucky you didn’t run into aguarddog.Try to talk tooneofthem,andhe’llgoforyourthroat without so much as ahow-de-do. All you’ll heararebarksandgrunts.”Theworldlyyoung catwas

beginning to annoy him.Hrurr swatted him with apaw, Ylawl struck back, andtheyweresoontusslingunderthe trees, meowing fiercely.HetriedtosinkhisteethintoYlawl’s fur, only to be

repulsedbyaclaw.Hrurr withdrew. Ylawl

glared at him with gleamingeyes. “Now I understand,”Hrurr said sofdy. “I knowwhyIwasdrawnhere.”“And why is that?” the

young cat said, flicking histail.“I must speak to this dog

youmentioned.Ifsherealizeswhat is happening to her,she’ll want to escape. Notthat I care for dogs, you

understand,but there ismoreatstakehere.Thetwo-leggedones may draw morecreatures into their ways,separating us one fromanother, and then the worldwillbeforusasitisforthem.Where there were voices,there will be only silence.Theworldwillendforus.”“It is already ending,”

Ylawlsaidpensively.“Ihaveheard the birds speak ofburningcitiesand thebroken

bodies of two-legged onesamidst the stones. But it isending for the two-leggedones, not for us. They’llsweep themselves away andtheworldwill be ours again,asitwaslongago.”“They will sweep us away

with them,” Hrurr cried,recalling the blackbird’swords.“Look around. Do you see

anythingtoworryabouthere?Therearethedogs,ofcourse,

butonecanhardlyavoidsuchanimals nomatterwhere onetravels. Clearly the creatureswho dwell here are valuedand carefully caged. If westayhere,weoughttobesafeenough.”“I won’t live in a cage,”

Hrurrresponded.“Evenadogdeserves better. Imust speakto her. If she heeds me, shewillescapeandmaybebetterable to rouse her fellows tofreedomthanIwouldbe.”

Ylawl arched his back. “Isee that you must do thisthing before you discoverhowfutileitis.”Helaydownin the shadows again,shielding himself from thebrightsummersun.Hrurrkepthiseyesstill,and

the world vanished oncemore. Where did it go, heaskedhimself,andwhydiditfade away?When he movedhiseyes,hefoundthatYlawlwasstillwithhim; thechalet

remained on the hill. Howmany times had he crossedfrom one world to anotherwithoutrealizinghehaddoneso? Was each world so likeeveryotherthatnomovementcould lead him to a trulydifferent place, or was heforever trapped in this one,able only to glimpse theothers through windows ofshinyglass?“WhenwillIseethisdog?”

heasked.

“Soonenough,”Ylawlsaid.“Youmustwait for her two-legstoleadheroutside.”

Moremetal beasts had cometo the chalet, leaving theirgray-clothed two-leggedonesnear the door, where thehouse had swallowed them.The last to arrivehadbeen aman in black; he entered thechaletwhiletwocompanions,also in black, lingered near

his beast, ignoring the groupof two-legged ones in graywhowerepacingrestlessly.Hrurr, settling on the grass

nearby, waited, groominghimselfwithhistonguewhileYlawl scampered about andinspected the beasts.Occasionally, he coulddiscern the shapes of menbehind the wide windowabove.Atlasttheothertwo-legged

ones came back out of the

house, shaking theirheadsasthey walked toward theirmetal beasts. The waitingmen stiffened and flappedtheir right arms beforeopening the beasts’ bellies.One of the black-clothedcreatures stared directly atHrurr;themanremindedhimofsomething,butthememorywas just out of reach. Hewaited tohearagentlecroonor to receive a pat on thehead,but the two-legs turned

away, watching as the otherbeastsroaredtowardtheroad.Someone had appeared on

the veranda above thewindow; Hrurr widened hiseyes.Twomenwereperchingon the stone barriersurrounding the balcony; oneturnedandgazedoutovertheland.Hrurrcontinuedtostare.Suddenly a head appearednext to the two-legs; it hadthe long muzzle of a largeAlsatiandog.

“There she is,” Ylawl saidas he strutted over to Hrurr,tail held high. The two-legshadputhishandonthedog’shead and was stroking heraffectionately;sheopenedhermouth,showinghertongue.“I must speak to you,”

Hrurrcalledout.The dog rose, paws on the

balustrade,andbarked.“I must speak to you,”

Hrurr repeated. “Can’t youhearme?”

TheAlsatian’searstwitchedasshebarkedagain.Hertwo-legs rubbed her back as shegazed at him happily. Hrurr,turning his attention to thiscreature, saw that his darkheadfurhungoverpartofhisforehead; a bit of dark furover his lip marked hisotherwisehairlesslowerface.“Whatisshecalled?”Hrurr

askedYlawl.“Blondi,” the younger cat

answered, tripping a bit over

theoddsound.“Itiswhathertwo-legs calls her. She, too,hasforgottenhername.”“Blondi!” Hrurr cried. The

dog barked again. “Are yousolosttoothersthatyoucan’teven hear me?” Instead ofreplying, Blondi disappearedbehind the balustrade. “Shedoesn’thear.”“I think she did,” Ylawl

said.“Eithershedoesn’twanttotalktoyou,orshe’safraidto speak in front of her two-

legs.”“Buthecan’thearwhatshe

would say.” Hrurr,disappointed, trotted downthe hill toward the pathleadingawayfromthehouse.When he looked back, thetwo-legged creatures hadvanished.He groomed himself for a

while,wonderingwhat to donext when a band of two-legged ones rounded thecornerofthehouse,marching

toward the path. Blondi,unleashed, was among them.Sheliftedhernose,sniffing.“Cats!” she cried as she

began to bark. Ylawl wasalreadyrunningtowardatree.The dog raced after him, ablur of light and movement,still barking. Hrurr boundedafterYlawl,followinghimupthetreetrunktowardalimb.The two cats, trapped,

hissed as Blondi dancedbeneath them.She rearedup,

puttingherpawsonthetrunk.“Go away,” she said. “Leavemaster alone. Nothing hereforyou.”Her words chilled Hrurr;

they were slurred and ill-formed, the sounds of acreature who had hardlylearnedhowtocommunicate,yet she seemed unaware ofthat.“Blondi,” Hrurr said,

clingingtothelimb,“canyouunderstand what I am

saying?”The dog paused; her

forelimbs dropped to theground. “Too fast,” shereplied.“Moreslow.”His furprickled.Ylawl, fur

standing on end, showed histeeth, snarling. “You arelosingyourpowerofspeech,”Hrurrsaidslowly.“Don’tyouknowwhatthatmeans?”Thedogbarked.“Youhave livedamong the

two-leggedonesfortoolong,

and have given up part ofyour soul.You’ve drawn tooclose to them. Listen to me!You must save yourselfbeforeit’stoolate.”“Iservemaster.”“No,he’ssupposedtoserve

you. Let him feed you andkeep you at his side if hemust,butwhenyouloseyourpowerof speech,he asks toomuch.Theworldwillbecomeas silent for you as it is forhim.Don’tyouunderstand?”

“Blondi!” The moustachedtwo-legs had stepped awayfrom his group and wascalling to her. She hesitated,clearly wanting to harass thecats, then bounded back tohim, rolling in the grass asshe groveled at his feet. Hebarked at her and she stoodonherhindlegs.Pickingupastick, he held it at arm’slengthandbarkedagain.Thedogleapedoverit,thensatonher haunches, tongue out as

shepanted.Hrurr, sickened by the

slavish display, could hardlybeartowatch.Hopehadrisenin himwhen he saw the dogwithoutaleash;nowheknewthatshedidnotneedone,thather master enslaved herwithoutit.Blondi accepted a pat from

her two-legs, then boundedahead of the group as theybegan to descend the path,walking in two rows.

Blondi’s two-legs, walkingnext to the fair-furred femaleHrurrhadseenearlier,wasinthelead.Behindhim,themanin black offered his arm toanother female; the otherstrailed behind, reminding thecatofaflockofgeese.“Blondi!” Hrurr called out

once more, but the dog keptnearher two-legs, leapingupwheneverhegesturedtoher.Ylawl hunkered down on

the tree limb. “You just had

tospeaktoher.Youwouldn’tlisten to me. Now we’retrapped. I don’t know howwe’regoingtogetdown.”Hrurr was already backing

away toward the trunk. Heclung to the bark with hisclaws, moving backwarddown the tree. His pawsslipped. He tumbled, archinghis body, and managed toland on his feet. “Come ondown.”“Ican’t.”

“Don’tbesuchakitten.”“I can’t.” The younger cat

began to meow piteously asHrurrfidgetedbelow.They had drawn the

attention of the two black-clothed creatures near thehouse, who were nowapproaching. Hrurr hissed asone of the strangers cluckedat him, and retreated a bit,feelingthreatened.One two-legs held out his

hands as he boosted his

companion, who reached up,grabbed Ylawl by the scruffof the neck, then jumpeddown.Thesmallcatsuddenlydug his claws into hisrescuer’s arm; the mandropped him, kicking at himwith one leather-clad leg.Ylawl dodged him, then ran,disappearing around the sideofthehouse.Onetwo-legsknelt,holding

outahandtoHrurrashislipsmoved. The cat tensed,

transfixed by the man’s paleeyes and the tiny, gleamingskull on his head covering.His memory stirred. Anotherman in such a head coveringhad towered over him as hisblack-clothed companionshad dragged Hrurr’s two-legged creatures from theirhouse.Heshivered.“Wherearemypeople?”he

asked, forgetting that theycould not hear him. Thekneelingmanbaredhisteeth;

the other began to circlearoundthecat.Hrurr leaped up and ran

down the hill, the twocreatures in pursuit. As hecametoa tree,heturnedandnoticed that the pair hadhalted. One waved his arms.Giving up the chase, the twoclimbed back toward thechalet.Hrurr settled himself under

thetree.Hadhispeoplebeentaken to thisplace?Ifso, the

black-clad men might onlyhavewanted to returnhim tothem.Helickedhisfurwhilepondering that possibility.Oneofhisfemaletwo-leggedones had screamed, nearlydeafeningHrurrastheblack-clothed ones dragged heroutside;anotherofhispeoplehadbeenkickedashe layonthe ground. Wherever theywere now, he was sure thatthey would not have wantedhimwith them; they had not

evencalledoutthenametheyusedforhim.Theymusthaveknown that he would bebetteroffonhisown.Heshouldneverhavecome

to this place, this cage. Henow knew what the brokenmirrorintheroadhadmeant;hisworldwasshattering,andthe black-clad men wouldrule it along with othercreatureswho could not hearor speak. Hewas lost unlesshe could find hisway out of

thisworld.

The two-legged ones werewalking up the path, Blondibounding ahead of them.Hrurr stretched. He had onelast chance to speak.Summoning his courage, hesprang out into the duskylight and stood above theapproachingpeople.Blondi growled, about to

leap up the slope toward the

catwhen her two-legs seizedher by the collar, trying torestrain her. Hrurr struggledwithhimself,wantingtoflee.“Foolish dog,” Hrurr said,

raisinghisfurandarchinghisback. “Strike at me if youcan.At least then I’llbe freeof this world, and becomeone of the spirits who stalkthenight.”The dog hesitated at his

words.“Freeyourself,”Hrurrwent

on. “Leave your two-legsbefore it’s too late. Go intotheforestandrestoreyourselfbeforeyoucannolongerhearourwords.”“Free?” Blondi replied.

“Freenow.”“You’reaprisoner, like the

onewho holds you. You areboth imprisoned on thismountain.”Blondibouncedonherfront

paws, then crouched. Hertwo-legs knelt next to her,

still holding her while hiscompanions murmured andgestured at the cat. “Brave,isn’t it?” one man said.“WhatmorecouldyouaskofaGermancat?”Thetwo-legsliftedhishead,

staring at Hrurr with paleeyes. The cat’s tail dropped,pressing against his side. Hesuddenly felt as though theman had heard his words,couldindeedseeintohissouland rob him of it, as he had

robbed Blondi of hers.Hrurr’s ears flattened. Theman’s gaze seemed to turninward then, almost as if hecontained the world insidehimself.“Blondi!” Hrurr’s heart

thumped against his chest. “Isee death. I see death in thepale face of your master.Save yourself. I see wilddreamsinhiseyes.”“Have food,” the dog said.

“Have shelter. No prisoner.

Go where he goes, not stayhere always.Black-clad onesandgray-cladonesservehim,asIdo,asalldo.Ifollowhimall my life. Free. What isfree?”Thetwo-legsreachedinside

his jacket,pulledouta leash,and attached it to Blondi’scollar. The dog licked hishand.The procession continued

toward the house. Hrurrleaped out of theirway, then

trailed them at a distance,hearingBlondi’s intermittent,senselessbarks.Her two-legsturnedaroundtoglancedownthemountain,waving a handlimplyatthevistabelow.“There is the mountain

whereCharlemagneissaidtolie,” the two-legs said,indicatinganotherpeak.“Itissaid he will rise again whenheisneeded.Itisnoaccidentthat I have my residenceoppositeit.”

“Whatdoesitmean?”Hrurrcried out, imagining thatBlondimightknow.“That he rule everything,”

Blondi replied, “and that Iserve,whereverhegoes.”“Weshallwinthiswar,”the

two-legs said. Behind him,two other creatures wereshakingtheirheads.Thefair-furred woman touched hisarm.“Let us go inside, my

Fuehrer,”onemansaid.

The chalet’s picture windowwas bright with light. Hrurrsat below, watchingsilhouetted shapes flutteracross the panes. Earlier inthe night, the fair-furredwoman had appeared on thebalcony above; she hadkindly dropped a few bits offood, glancing aroundnervously as if afraidsomeone might see her.

“Well?”Hrurr turned his head.

Ylawl was slinking towardhim, eyes gleaming in thedark.“IseethatBlondi’sstillthere.” The dog, a shadowoutlined by the light, wasnowgazingoutthewindow.“Hermasterstillholdsher,”

Hrurrsaid.“Ithinkshewouldevendieforhim.”Hepaused.“Comewithme,Ylawl.”“Wherewillyougo?”“Down to the valley, I

suppose.” He thought ofreturning to Mewleen,wondering if he would everfindheragain.“It’salongway.”“IwishIcouldgotoaplace

where there are no two-leggedones.”“They are everywhere.

You’ll never escape them.They’llswallowtheworld,atleast for a time. Best to takewhat they offer and ignorethemotherwise.”

“They serve no one exceptthemselves, Ylawl. Theydon’t even realize how blindand deaf they are.” Hrurrstretched.“Imustleave.”Thesmallercatlingeredfor

amoment,thenslippedaway.“Goodbye, then,” Ylawlwhispered.

Hrurrmadehiswaydowntheslope,keepingawayfromtheroads, feeling his way

through the night with hiswhiskers. The mindless barkofaguarddoginthedistanceoccasionally echoed throughthewood;thecreaturedidnoteven bother to soundwarnings in the animals’tongue.HethoughtofBlondi,whoseemedtoknowhertwo-legs’s language better thanherown.Bymorning,hehadcometo

the barbed-wire fence;slipping under it, he left the

enclosure. The birds weresinging, gossiping of thesights they had seen and thegrubs they had caught andchirpingwarningstointrudersontheirterritory.“Birds!” Hrurr called out.

“You’veflownfar.Youmustknowwhere Iwouldbesafe.WhereshouldIgo?”“Cat!Cat!”thebirdsreplied

mockingly.Nooneansweredhisquestion.

Hecametotheroadwherehehad left Mewleen and pacedalong it, seeking. At last heunderstood that the brokenmirror was gone; the omenhad vanished. He sat down,wonderingwhatitmeant.Something purred in the

distance.Hestartedupastheprocession of metal beastspassed him, moving in thedirection of the distant town.Foramoment,hewassurehe

had seen Blondi inside onebeast’s belly, her nosepressed against a transparentshield,deathinhereyes.When the herd had rolled

past,hesawMewleengazingat him from across the road,brighteyesflickering.Heranto her, bounding over theroad, legs stretching as hedisplayed his speed andgrace. Rolling onto his back,he nipped at her fur as sheheld him with her paws; her

purring and his became onesound.“The fragments are gone,”

hesaid.“Iknow.”“I’m in my own world

again, and the dog has beentakenfromthecage.”“Whatever do you mean?”

Mewleenasked.He rolled away. “It’s

nothing,” he replied,scrambling to his feet. Hecould not tellMewleenwhat

he had seen; better not toburden her with his darkvision.“Look at you,” she chided.

“So ungroomed—I imagineyou’re hungry as well.” Shenuzzled at his fur. “Do youwant to come homewithmenow? They may shoo youaway at first, but when theyunderstand that you have noplace to go, they’ll let youstay.”He thought of food and

dark, warm places, of lapsand soft voices. Reluctantly,he was beginning tounderstandhowBlondifelt.“For a while,” he said,

clingingtohisfreedom.“Justforawhile.”As they left theroad, several birds flewoverhead, screaming of thedistantwar.

Afterwordto“TheMountainCage”:

Not long ago, a friend ofmine mentioned a writer heknew who had begunresearchinganovelsetduringWorldWar IIabout theNazihigh command. This writersoongaveupon thisproject,largelybecausehavingtolivein that world imaginativelyover a long period of time

wasdrivinghimcrazy.Thereare those who argue that theNazis, theHolocaust,andtheeventssurroundingthemmaynotbefitsubjectsforfiction,at least not until more timehaspassedandthelastofthesurvivors have had their say.Others have claimed that towrite fiction about suchhorrors risks trivializingthem,sincetheevilrealitysofar exceeds anythingimagination and artistic

transformationmightyield.All of which may help to

explainwhyIapproachedthissubject warily and chose toglimpse it obliquely, throughtheeyesofcats.

COMMONMIND

Miller Oretskin had installedthe satellite dish himself,mountingthelargewok-sizedobject on the side of hishouse, next to one of thewindows. Doing the jobhimself had saved money,and he had always liked touse his hands anyway. Forfiveyears,hehadbeenlivinga largely solitary life in this

small house thirty milesoutsidethecityofHannaford.AfterEmily’sdeath,andthenhaving to take earlyretirementwhenthecompanywas layingpeopleoff,Millerhadn’t much wanted to bearoundalotofotherpeople.But there was such a thing

as too much solitude, andwith the dish, he could pickupCNNandESPNandsomeof those old movies he andEmily had seen together on

that Turner channel and forless money than the cablecompanywouldhavechargedhim.Now,with the dish andan antenna for localprogramming, he would beable to see just aboutanythinghecaredtowatch.Signals, Miller thought as

he set down his remote andleaned back in his recliner.Everything on his TV screen—the green of the Astroturf,the players lining up in

formation on the field, thevoice of Boomer Whats-his-name speculating aboutwhattheBroncosmightdonext—allofitwassignalsaimedhisway from a satellite andpickedupbyhisdish,signalstranslated into imagesheandother viewers could watch.Alloverthecountry,millionsof guys were probablywatching this same game,sharing the same experience,most likely having many of

thesamethoughts.All of which, Miller told

himself, was some kind ofmiracle.

Kyle Gorman was foolingaround with the amplifier inthe back, showing off for ashopper who had wanderedinto the store. JessamynRichter watched as Kyleloopedtheguitarstraparoundhis neck, grasped the

instrument, then struck anote. An electronic screechsliced through her eardrums.Jessamyn covered her earswithherhands.“Now that’s what I call

feedback,”Kylesaid.“Whoa,” the shopper

sighed. He was a youngbearded man in a wornleather jacket, and Kyle hadclearly impressed him.Jessamyn rested her elbowson the counter, listening

absently as Kyle went onabout amplitude andvibrations and feedback as ifhe were Mr. Science orsomebody. Maybe heimpressed a lot of thecustomers, but he didn’timpress her. By herestimation,Kylehad tobe atleast thirty-five,maybe closetoforty,andherehewasstillworking in a Radio Cabinstore in themall.Hewas thesales manager here, and got

to handle the customers whowanted to spend seriousdollars, like the guy inpinstripeswhohadboughtthetwo computers for cash thatmorning or the geezer whofinally decided to get thesatellitedishandabigscreenTV to go with it; but Kylewasstillkindofpathetic.“Jeez,” Jessamyn muttered

underherbreath,ignoringthebewildered-looking womanstanding near the cellular

phonedisplay,wishingthatitwas nine-thirty already sothat she andKyle could startclosing up the place. If shewas still working in a RadioCabin store when she waspushing forty, she hopedsomebodywouldjusttakeheroutandshoother.Kyle pulled the strap over

his head, then set the guitardown. “I wish it was nine-thirty,” he said. “If I’m stillworking for Radio Cabin in

the mall when I’m forty, Ihope somebody takesmeoutandshootsme.”He’s reading my mind,

Jessamyn thought, and heardherself say, “Hey, dude, atleast you’re not slingingburgers at Mickey Dee’s.”Those weren’t her words.Jessamyn didn’t knowwherethey had come from. Shelooked at the man in theleather jacket and saw himgaping at her. “I can’t even

get my own place,” shecontinued, feeling adrift andlostanddefeated.Kyle looked at the woman

who was lingering near theshelves of cellular phones.“He won’t speak to me,”Kylesaid.“Myownson,andhewon’t speak tome,he’sathousand miles away andwantsnothingtodowithme.What thehelldoIevenneedaphonefor?”Kyle, she knew, had no

kids. Man, this is bizarre,Jessamyn thought, and thenflashed on the fact that shewasn’t totallyweirdedoutbywhatwashappening, thatshedidnotfeelafraid.“Man,thisis bizarre,” the guy in theleather jacket said, “but Iknow what’s going on, andI’mnotscared.We’returningtelepathic—that’swhat it is.”He turned toward Jessamyn,but she was already walkingslowlytowardKyle.

“It’snotmy life,” she said,knowing that it was Kyle’swords reverberating insideher now. “Working in RadioCabin—thatisn’tmyreallife.My apartment might not bemuch, but it’smine. Gotmybooks, my computer, no ties—you know, sometimes thesecretof life isnotneedingawhole lot of stuff and beinghappywithwhatyouhave.”Awaveofsympathyforthe

middle-aged woman flowed

into her. “Edie,” Jessamynsaid, knowing that this wastheotherwoman’sname.“Jess,” Edie replied, using

Jessamyn’snickname.Jessamyn was filled with

pity for the leather-jacketeddude stuck on the fast-foodcareer track and also with asudden compassion forKyle.“It isn’t easy,” she said,“beinginthecloset.”Kyle nodded. “You can

bank on that,” he said, but

Edie and the other guy weresaying the words along withhim. “But it’s easier for menow.ItwasworsewhenIwasyounger. At least now I can…”“…comeouttomyfriends

and family,” Jessamynfinished, “even if I wouldn’twant other people to knowI’mgay.”Theystoodinacircle,inthe

middle of the Radio Cabin,hands clasped, in silent

communion, and then shelookeduptoseemorepeopleentering the store. Firstweretwo punk-looking kids whohad just boosted a couple ofCDs from the Music Masteroutlet and who were feelingbad about it, followed by atired-lookingwomanwhohadbeenshopping fornewshoesshe needed but could notafford and a heavy-set manwho was worrying about hischolesterolandhisheart.

“Shouldn’t have stolenthoseCDs,”Kyle said to thepunks.“Youknowsomething?”the

weary-lookingwomansaidtoEdie. “I think your boy becallingyouanydaynow.”More people were coming

into the Radio Cabin. Forsome reason, Jessamyn washearing a lot of voices, andthey seemed to be gettinglouder, even though nobodywassayinganything,

“… can’t go home to thatbastard…”“…maybeIoughttotakeit

back…”“… he’s never going to

noticeme…”“…put it off too long, got

to tell her I want a divorce…”“… why am I so much

happier here than I ever amwhenI’mhome?”Jessamynmovedtowardthe

newcomers,welcomingthem.

RichBracco sat at thebar inthe Montana Steakhouse,waiting for his wife Anna toshowup.He’dhadoneWildTurkey on the rocks alreadyand was working on hissecond. Anna should havebeen here half an hour ago,but she always lost track oftimeinthemall.Probably trying on shoes,

Richthought,orcheckingout

knick-knacks at LucyGoosy’s or whatever thenameofthatstorewas,anditwouldn’t be his fault if hewas half in the bag by thetimeshegothere.Sheshouldhavegottenhererightafterhefinished the Coke he hadordered,andthenhewouldn’tbe sitting here preparing toorderathirddrink.Maybegettingdrunkwould

make it easier for him to getthrough taking her out to

dinner and trying to makeconversation. Anna didn’ttalk to him much any more;sometimes days passedwithout anything morepassing between them than“See you later” and “I’mgoingtobed.”Theyhadbeenmarried for five years now,and living together a coupleof years longer than that, yethe felt that he knew lessabout her than he had sevenyears ago. Something had

gone wrong, and he didn’tknowwhat itwas.Maybehewas putting in toomany latehoursat the insuranceoffice;maybe Anna should ask themanager at the bank to giveher Saturdays offmore oftenso that theycouldhavemoretimetogether.He finished his Wild

Turkey and signaled to thebartender for another drink.We’ve turned intowindowless monads, Rich

thought, thinking of aphilosophy course he hadtaken in college. Aphilosopher called Leibnitzhad thought that theuniversewasmade up ofmonads thatwere completely independentof one another but operatedaccordingtoapre-establishedharmony.Allofwhichmeant,Rich mused hazily, that hewasn’t really seeing orhearing anything outsidehimselfatall,andneitherwas

anyoneelse;theywerealljustabunchofwind-uptoyswhohad been synchronized orwhatever a long time ago. Itwas predetermined that thebartenderwouldbesettinghisthird drink on a napkin infront of him at thismoment,and that Rich’s hand wouldbe reaching out to take it.Now something had screwedup the pre-establishedharmony between him andAnna; they were completely

lockedupinsidethemselves.“That’s what we are, all

right,” the man on the stoolnext to himmuttered, “just abunch of windowlessmonads,” and then Richturned to see Anna comingtowardhim, followedby twoboys wearing baseball capsturned backwards, an oldwoman in a plaid coat, ayoung couple in jeans, andwhat looked like a crowd ofpeoplebehindthem.

“I love you,” Anna said asshecameuptohim,andRichheard himself say the wordswithher.Somebodynearhimbegan to laugh, and sooneveryone in the bar waslaughing. Life isn’t so bad,Rich thought as he huggedAnna and grinned at the twoboysinthebaseballcaps.“Youcansaythatagain,”a

red-hairedwomansaidasshehoisted herself onto a stool.“Guesswearen’twindowless

monads any more. Ourwindowsarewideopen.”Warmth and sympathy for

his fellow monads floodedinto Rich. “Drinks on thehouse,” someone called outjustbeforeRichwasabouttosaythesamething.“I love you, too,” another

manwassayingtoAnna.“What do I care?” said the

bartenderandthreeothermenin unison. “It isn’t mybooze.”

The bartender startedpouring drinks and settingthem out as more peoplebellieduptothebar.Ayoungwomaninablueblazerstoodnext to himwith a shaker ofmargaritas. “It isn’t mybooze,” she repeated. “Itbelongs to some goddamncorporation inCincinnati thatmakes all uswaitresseswearStetsons that keep falling offour heads and cowboy bootsthat leave blisters on our

feet.”Rich leaned toward the

woman. She could not be awaitress here; she wasn’twearingtherequisiteStetson.Butoneofthewaitresseswasstanding just behind her,dropping ice into glasses.Rich suddenly knew that thewaitress had been watchinghim while he was drinking,thinking he was cute, andwonderingifitwasworthherwhile to flirt with him. The

womanintheblueblazerwashere tocelebrateher first jobwith a local law firm. Shesmiled at him; she smiledback.“Congratulations,” Rich

said,liftinghisglass.“Iloveyou,too,”Annawas

saying to a bearded guy in asweatshirt.

Jessamynfollowedthecrowdout of the store. Outside the

Gap, two of the sales clerkswere throwing coats andsweaterstothepeoplemillingaroundintheentrance.“Takethem!”severalvoicesshoutedout at once. “Youneed themmore than the store does!”Jessamynfeltthegratitudeofthe women catching theclothing and the warmth oftheclerksgivingthegarmentsaway.A knot of people had

collected around the pretzel

stand. She suddenly felthungry,sawthatalmostallofthe pretzels were gone, thenletthepeoplepressingaroundher propel her toward theGreat American Cookieoutlet.Somebodyhandedhera bag of chocolate chipcookies. She turned her headslightly, saw that Kyle wasstill next to her, sensedimmediatelythathewantedacookie,andheldoutthebag.“Thanks,” he said, and a

feeling of ecstacy floodedinto her; she wanted nothingmorethantoroamaroundthemallhandingoutcookiesandaccepting whatevermerchandiseanybodywantedtohand toher.She spottedamall security officer over byLibertyShoes; theuniformedman was grinning as hetossed boxes of shoes topassers-by.Shedidn’thavetoworryabouthim.It occurred to Jessamyn

then that, with all herthoughts flowing into theothers in the mall and theirsintohers,shedidnothavetoworry about anything. Sheunderstood them all and waspart of all of them. Andwasn’t that kind ofoverwhelming understandingand sympathy just what theworldneeded?

Chris Szekely got out of the

van. Her cameraman hadparked just inside the westentrance to the HannafordCenter Mall, because it wasclear that they would not beable to get any closer to themall than that. Five policecars sat outside the mainentrance, andChris supposedthattheyhadalreadyblockedoffallthepossibleexits.Bob Unger grabbed his

camera and closed the dooron the driver’s side.

“WHND’s already here,” hesaid. Chris looked around,thensawaWHNDcarparkedover by the entrance.Probably Lou Collado, shethought. She didn’t see himamong the cops near theentrance, so maybe he hadbeaten the police here andmade it inside. Given thatWHND had the lowestratings of the three local TVnewsprograms,andtherewasa rumor that Lou might be

canned, he would take anykind of risk just to save hisass.Thefirstreporthadcomein

less than an hour ago, ataround seven-thirty. Peoplewere roaming through themall, taking whatever theywanted, completely out ofcontrol.Thatwas all shehadbeen able to find out beforedrivingouthere.Chrisstrodetowardtheknot

of policemen outside the

main entrance, with Bobtrailingher.Sherecognizedadetectiveshehadinterviewedjust lastweek. “Hey,Andy,”she called out. The detectiveglanced toward her. “What’shappening?”Beforehecouldgiveheran

answer, the doors of theentranceopened.Peoplewerecomingoutofthemall.Afewcarriedboxes,butotherswereempty-handed. Several smallchildren were among them,

clutching toys. All of themlookedsurprisinglycalm.“Iseeasecurityguardwith

them,” Andy the detectivesaid.Chris moved closer to her

cameraman,whowasalreadytaping footage. “We’d bettergo live with this one,” shemurmured to Bob. “I’ll calland ask for—” She paused,seeing a familiar face amongthe crowd at the mallentrance. Lou Collado of

WHND was with them,wearing the same placid,goofy-looking smile as therestofthem.“Remainwhereyouare,”an

amplified man’s voicebellowed. Chris wonderedhowmanypeoplewereinsidethe mall. Probably a lot,maybethousands.Theymighthave to call out a NationalGuard unit to handle them ifit got ugly.What could havemade so many people start

actingsoweird?She thought then of the

Holder Building, just a mileup the road from theHannaford Center Mall.Twenty people, all of whomhadmoved to the suburbs ofHannaford a year ago,worked in the small officebuildingforsomethingcalledMindData Associates, andnobody seemed to knowexactly what they did. Chrishad sniffed around for a

while,andhadfoundoutonlythatMindDatahadsomethingto do with communicationstechnologyandthattheywererumored to be part of agovernment project.MindData had recentlyinstalled a big dish on theroof of the Holder Building.Chris had supposed that theyneededthedishforuplinkstosatellites. She had soonturnedherattentiontostoriesthat were likely to get her

more spots on WKLY’sActionNews.Why was she thinking of

MindDataAssociatesnow?Itcouldn’t mean anything, buther newswoman’s guts—whichhadwarnedherearlierthat year that CouncilmanRolandwastakingbribesandobstructingjusticejustbeforeitwasannounced thathehadbeen indicted—weresignalingtoheragain.More people came out of

the mall entrance. “Staywhereyouare,”theamplifiedvoicesaid,buttheonesinthefrontkeptmoving,slowlybutdeliberately, toward thepolice,allofthemwiththoseeeriegrinsontheirfaces.“Jesus,” Bob said as he

aimed his camera towardthem. “They look likezombies.”“Not quite,” Chris said.

“Zombies don’t smile.” Shewondered if the police could

bring themselves to shootunarmed people. Theywouldn’t shoot; they wouldtryteargasorsomethingelsefirst.Maybetheywouldcloseoff the mall and wait. ThesiegeoftheHannafordCenterMall—thatmightbe thekindof human interest story thatcouldrunfordaysandmaybeeven get her noticed bystation managers in citieswith bigger markets thanraggedy-assedoldHannaford.

LouColladowasmovinginherdirection,inthemiddleofa knot of smiling people.Chris suddenly felt anoverwhelming sympathy forthe other TV news reporter.ShecouldstillhopetoescapeHannaford,butLouwasoverfortyevenifheclaimedtobethirty-fiveandhehadbeenatWHND for almost ten yearsnow.Hewouldhavetomakehispeacewith…“…beingalocalfixtureon

News 12,” Lou said. “That’sallright,Chris.Itisn’tsobad.WHND gave me a big raisein my new contract. I won’thave to uproot my kids. I’mactuallystarting…”“… to enjoy it,” a woman

next to Lou finished. “I’drather be where I am thanwhere you are, pushingyourself and dreaming ofturning yourself into ChristaKellythenetworkanchor.”She had never told anyone

about imagining herself asChrista Kelly the networkanchor, but then again Louand his station had notannounced his new contractandraise,either.Whatdoyouknow? she thought. I knowwhatyou’rethinking.Awaveofwarmth swept toward her,making her feel acontentment she had not feltin years, and thenuneasinesssuddenlygrippedher.“Whatisit?”Bobsaid.

“Andy,”Chris said, turningtoward the police detective,“you’vegotnothingtoworryabout.”“I’ve got nothing to worry

about,”Andyreplied.“I’ve been wanting to get

inside your pants ever sincewe beganworking together,”Chrissaid.Thoseweren’therwords; theybelonged toBobUnger.The police were milling

around with the crowd.

Suddenly a group of peoplesurged toward Chris andsweptherandBobawayfromthepolicecars.

“Holy cow,” Miller Oretskinmuttered as he looked at theimagesonhisTVscreen.JoeAllard and hiswifeLois haddrivenovertolookatMiller’sbig screen TV and watch amovie on one of the satellitechannels. Now they were

watching WKLY’s ActionNews, which had apparentlydumped its usual format infavor of live coverage ofsome very strange events attheHannafordCenterMall.“Themobhasmovedoutof

themallitself,”aman’svoicesaid, “and taken over theparking lot.” On the TV,Miller saw a helicopter shotofwhatlookedlikethousandsof people fanning out amongparked cars and other motor

vehicles. If this was a mob,Miller thought, it wasdefinitelyanorderlyone; thecrowdsweremoving throughthe parking lot in rows,reminding him ofschoolchildrenfilingoutforafiredrill.Thecamerazoomedinonpartofthecrowd.Manyof the people seemed to beholdinghandsorlinkingarmswiththosenexttothem.“I’llbedarned,” JoeAllard

muttered.

The view on the screenchanged,showing thefaceofa young dark-haired man.Behind him, Miller saw asquare edifice with the word“Sears,”whichmeantthatthereporter had to be on thehillside that overlooked themall’s north side. A captionsaying“WKLYActionNews—Live”wasintherighthandcorner of the screen. Millerwondered why the prettyblonde, that Chris Szekely,

wasn’t doing this particularstory.“Several members of the

Hannaford police force havebeen spotted among therioters, as has our ownChrisSzekely,” the reporter said.Guess that answers myquestion,Millerthought.“Westill have no word on whatexactly happened inside themall, since no one has beenabletogetinside.”The scene changed again,

showing the two WKLYanchors, Ed Stapleton andElisaNguyen,behindthebluedeskof theActionNews set.Stapleton leaned forwardandrested his elbows on thedesktop. “Bruno,” theanchorman said, “we’ve justhadareportfromthemayor’soffice confirming that localunits of the Army NationalGuardarebeingdispatchedtothe mall, with orders todispersethemob.”

“Holy mackerel,” Joe said.“We have to drive over theDunn Bridge and past themalltogethome.”“Unlesswetakeadetouron

RouteFive,”Loisadded.“Maybe you better stay

overnight, then,”Miller said.“Doesn’t look likeHannaford’s the safest placetoberightnow.”The reporter’s face was

backonthetubenow,withalegend reading “Bruno Flick

—Reporting Live” runningacross his chest. “It’s eerilyquiet here now,” the youngman said. “Every once in awhile,youhearthesesounds,almost like a kind of hum,coming out from the mob,and then it’s silent again.”Flick held out hismicrophone, as if trying topick up some sounds;Millerheard a wailing that mighthave been thewind. “Now itlookslikethey’recomingthis

way,towardthebridge.”“Maybe you better get out

ofthere,Bruno,”thevoiceofEdStapletonsaid.The image changed. Now

Miller was looking at ahelicopter shot of three longlinesofpeopleconvergingontherampthatledupthehilltothe Dunn Bridge. A yellowsatellite truckwith a dish onits roof was parked by theramp; Flick and hiscameraman stood next to the

vehicle. Therewas no trafficin sight, so presumably theroads around the mall hadbeen closed off. He wouldhavetoputJoeandLoisupinthespareroomtonight.“They’reattheramp,”Flick

said in a voiceover. Thecameraman with him turnedand aimed the camera on hisshoulderatthepeoplenearingtherampashebegantobacktoward the van. The imagechangedagaintorevealarow

of men and women holdinghands. They’re smiling,Miller thought as the camerazoomed in for a closeup.Odder still was the fact thattheirexpressionswereall thesamemysteriousMona Lisa-likesmile.Flick was talking again.

“Guess we should … neverliked … it was wonderful,feeling so free, not being allclosed in on myself. I wasalways so alone before and

now I’ll never have to bealone again.” The peoplecoming at at the cameraseemedtobewhispering,andthensuddenlythescreenwentblank.The Action News set

reappeared on the screen.“Bruno,” Ed Stapletonshouted.“Bruno!”Miller looked over at Lois

and Joe. “I wonder what thehell that was all about,” hesaid.

Everyone’s thoughts wereflowing through Chris now,so many and so rapidly thatshecouldnolongertellwhereshe ended and someone elsebegan.Shemournedwith thewoman whose son would nolonger speak to her, rejoicedwith the boy who had justwon his varsity letter inbasketball, sympathized withthe insurance executive who

had skirted the legal andethicaledgesforhiscompanyand had come to despisehimself for it. Up ahead,underoneof the ramp lights,shesawherrivalBrunoFlickstanding near a yellowWKLYvan.I never liked all that

competition between us,Christhought.“I never liked it at all,”

several people in her rowmurmured.

It’s wonderful, Christhought, feeling so free, notbeingsoclosedinonmyself.I’llneverbealoneagain.Bruno smiled at her as she

and the others came up theramp. Then she noticedheadlights behind him andsaw that several cars werecomingtowardthem.No,notcars, she thought as themotorcade whined to a halt.Jeeps, and trucks, andhelmeted men in uniform

who jumped out of thevehicles and lined up in theroad.Shewantedtoturnandrun.

She was trapped insideherself,standingonarampinthemiddleofamobwiththeNational Guard preparing toshoot them all. Amoan rosefrom the people around her,and for amoment she fearedthat the link binding her tothemhadbroken,butthenherthoughtswerejoinedtotheirs

oncemore.I love you all, she thought,

but it wasn’t the same. Thefear was still inside her, andnow it was also growing,leaping from one mind toanother, a fear that wasbecomingpartoftheAll.

Jessamyn’s left hand was inKyle’s; her right handclutched the arm of the mannamed Rich. He had a wife

namedAnna; she had pickedthatupfromhisthoughts,too.Theywerefollowingthelinesofpeople in frontof them. Itcametoherthattheywereallmoving north, toward thebridge thatspanned theriver.I’m coolwith that, Jessamynthought.Itdidn’tmuchmatterwhere they went, as long astheyweretogether.“Feedback,” Kyle was

saying,ormaybehewasonlythinking it. She was at the

point now where she waspicking up so much that shecould not tell if the otherswere saying their thoughtsaloudoronlythinkingthem.“Not feedback,” someone

else said—or thought. “Notquite, although that’s not abad way of putting it.Somethingwentwrong.”“Something went wrong,”

Jessamynrepeated.“Somebody screwedupbig

time.”

“Somebody screwedupbigtime,” Jessamyn said. Morewas coming to her, and shesensed thatothersamonghercompanions were alsopicking it up. “We weresupposed to test it out in anisolated spot, aim the signalatsomesmallcommunity,seehow they reacted, then shutthe suckerdownwithnoonebeingthewiser.”“I guess,” Kyle said, “the

system worked.” Jessamyn

found herself mouthing thewords along with him. “Wewanted crowd control, andwe’ve got crowd control.We’vegotthiswholedamnedcrowd under control. Theonly problems are that wedon’t know what thetransponder’srangemightbe,how long the dish will keepsending, and how long thesemental reverberations willpersistevenwhenit…”“… does shut down,” Rich

finished.“Sabotage,” someone

behindJessamynsaid,“that’swhat it is, or else someasshole jumping the gun ontesting. They’ll trace thewhole mess back toMindData Associates whenthis is all over and then it’sgoingtobelawsuitcity.”Another emotion was

flowing into her, a despairthat was almost numbing. “Ican’t bear it,” a voice

whispered. “Nothing willeverbeanybetter.Ijustwantthepaintostop.”Jessamyndidnotknowthis

voice, thismind.“That’soneof the problems with thisproject,” Kyle said. “Youcan’t tell whose thoughts aregoing to resonate more thanothers. You don’t knowwho’s going to set the tone.You don’t know if you’regoing to have a happycontrolled crowd or a very

unhappy one. It all depends…”I’m afraid, Jessamyn

thought, I am really afraidnow.

Lois finally went to bed justafter midnight. Miller,knowinghewouldnotbeableto sleep until he knew whatwas going on in Hannaford,stayedupwith Joe,watchingthe helicopter shots of the

mallmobandlisteningtothecommentary of Ed StapletonandElisaNguyen.Peoplewerelineduponthe

bridge and along the ramp.The parking lot, except forthevehiclesparkedthere,wasempty. Calling out theNational Guard units, Millerthought, had accomplishedexactly nothing. Theuniformed guards were nowscattered among the crowd,standing on the bridge with

them,waitingfor—what?“I have General Thorne on

thephonenow,” thevoiceofElisaNguyen said. “General,arethereanyplanstosendinmoresoldiers?”“Notmuchpoint in that,”a

raspy male voice replied, “ifthey’re just going to end upbecomingpartoftheprobleminstead of part of thesolution.”“What could be causing all

ofthesepeopletobehavethat

way?”ElisaNguyenasked.General Thorne let out a

sigh.“Well,ifIknewthat—”Hefellsilent.Thescenechanged toshow

thetwoanchorsattheActionNewsdesk,bothstill lookingmeticulously groomed but atad wearier around the eyes.“In case you’ve just tunedin,”EdStapletonsaid,“we’reinthemiddleoflivecoverageofwhat has to be one of thestrangest incidents in

Hannafordcityhistory.We’restillnotclearonmanyof thedetails, but at about seveno’clockthisevening,boththeemployeesand thecustomersattheHannafordCenterMallapparentlylootedmanyofthestores and then came out ofthemall into theparking lotsat approximately eight-thirty,wheremostoftheHannafordpolice force was waiting forthem. The police, instead ofrestraining them, joined the

crowd. National Guard unitswere on their way to theDunnBridgenearthemallbyten-thirty, but it appears thatthey have joined the mob aswell. At the moment, anestimated four thousandpeople are standing on thebridge—for what purpose, Ican’t begin to guess. So far,therearenoreportsofinjuriesorviolence.”The anchorman shook his

head. “As I said, this has to

be one of the oddest newsstoriesI’veevercovered.”“You can say that again,”

JoemutteredtoMiller.“We go now to Alexa

Browne, reporting from aboaton theLeakansaRiver.”Ed Stapleton’s talking headdisappeared, to be replacedby a young woman in awindbreaker.“Alexa Browne, reporting

from Hannaford police boatnumber two.” The reporter’s

usual helmet of dark hairlooked windblown andungroomed. “We’re about aquarter of a mile downriverfromtheDunnBridge.Givenwhat has happened so far,with members of the policeforce and National Guardnowpartofthemob,ChiefofPolice Gibson is waitingbefore deciding on furtheraction.”“Isn’t there a chance that

themobwillsimplyget tired

and disperse?” the voice ofEdStapletonasked.“We can hope for that,”

Alexa Browne replied. Thecamera swept away fromherto a shot of thebridge in thedistance. Under the lightslining the bridge, the crowdwas clearly visible; peoplestoodalongthewalkwaysandagainsttherailings.TheDunnBridge was old, Millerrecalled; the structure hadbeenaroundnearlyaslongas

he had. Even with its recentrefurbishing, he wonderedhow much weight it couldhold.“I’ll be darned,” Joe said.

“Good thing we decided tosleep over. I’ll bet this storystarts getting networkcoverageifthisgoesonmuchlonger.”“Ifitgoesonmuchlonger,”

Miller said, “youmaybemyhouseguestsforawhile.”Hewatched the people on the

bridge, all so quiet andorderly, all standing there asif they were waiting forsomething. They’d have toget tuckered out eventually,he thought. He wonderedwhat the police would dolater.If theypressedcharges,theywouldhaveto lockupalotofpeople, includingsomeoftheirownmen.Therewerechildren among the mob; hehad seen them earlier, whenthecrowdwasstillinthemall

parking lot. How couldpeople drag little kids intosomethinglikethis?This whole weird business

wasremindinghimofwhyhehad bought this house, whyhe had decided to leaveHannafordandliveoutinthecountry away from otherpeople. Being by himself,Miller could hear his ownthoughts, become more likehimself.Ifamanwasaroundotherpeopleallthetime,with

little or no solitude, prettysoonhewouldn’tknowwhatthoughts were his own andwhat was only receivedwisdom. If others keptinterrupting him all the time,intruding on his thoughts, itwas only natural that, after awhile, he wouldn’t knowwhat he really thought. Hewould not know if the voicehewashearinginsidehimselfwas his own or that of someotherguywhohadimpressed

histhoughtsuponhim.And,hetoldhimself,allthe

media and phones and brandnamesandnationalfranchiseshaddone their share tomakepeoplemorelikeoneanother,even inside themselves, as iftheywereallonlypartofonegreatbigcommonmind.Themore alike they were, theeasier it would be for thepolitiians and the CEOs andthe other high muckety-mucksoftheworldtocontrol

them.Theyshouldallgoandread that old Robert Frostpoem, he thought.“Something there is thatdoesn’tloveawall,”itbegan,butendedwith“Goodfencesmakegoodneighbors.”“Damned if I know what

they’regonnado,”Joesaid.Miller sighed. “There’sone

thing they’d probably betterdo, and soon, and that’sfigureouthowtogetallthosefolksoffthatoldbridge.”

Thoughts about resonanceand amplitude were flowingto Chris from the rest of themind. That was how sheperceived her companionsnow, her other selves, theother parts of her ownintelligence.“Not quite.” Another

thought was coming to hernow. “Not yet. Thedistinctions among us still

remain, and it seems thatsomearestrongerthanothers,have more forceful thoughts,ones that respond morereadilytothetransponderandthen come to dominate therest.”“What the hell do you

mean?” Chris and severalothersrecitedinunison.The answer came. “We

wanted crowd control. Thequestion is: who’s going tocontrolthecrowd?”

“Some doofus screwed thisproject up big time,” severalvoices murmured. “Hopesomebody can turn off thattransponder, or at least hadthe sense to set it to shutdownautomatically.”Chrisnoticeddimlythatshe

andallofthepeoplestandingto either side of herwere allresting their arms against therailing.Shegazedattheriverbelow, watching thereflectionsofthebridgelights

dancing on the dark water.She thought of how easy itwouldbetoclimbupovertherailingandleapintotheriver,sink under the water andmove with the current thatwaslikethethoughtsflowingintoallofthem.“…cameto themall toget

readyforwhatIhavetodo.”Chris straightened, attentiveto this new, darker, moredespairing thought. “There’snomorereasontogoon.My

business is gone, my wife isgone,my investors are goingto sue and the IRS is sure tocome after me. I can’t digmyselfoutofthishole.Funny—once I made up my mindthat I’d have to cash in mychips, just drive out to thebridge and jump off andfinally do myself in, I felt awhole lot better. Felt betterthanIhaveinalongtime.”“Felt a lot better,” a group

of children near Chris said

softly as she mouthed thewordssilently.“No reason for that,

brothersandsisters.”Anothermoreforcefulmindandvoicewere speaking to her. “Ain’tno reason to give up hoping.A better day’s coming. Thegood Lord doesn’t give abody more than a body canbear.”Someone began to sing.

Voices rose in song allaroundher.Chrisreachedfor

the hands of the peoplestanding to her right and leftas she sang. She could notremember if she had everheard this song before, yetsheknewit,andeverythinginherwarmedtothesound.

“Rejoiceandsing!”Everyonearound Jessamyn wasshouting out the words. Stillclutching the hands of Kyleand the guy called Rich, she

swayed to the sound of thehymn.Shehadn’tbeeninsidea church since leaving highschool, but she knew thishymn.“Make a joyful noise,” she

sangaloud,hearingRichandKyle repeat the words. Theunhappy, despairing thoughtsthathadtroubledhersomuchonlyafewmomentsagowereeasing.Hope flowered insideher again; the ruin that wasall that left of the business

andthefailingmarriagewerethings that they could all putbehindthemnow.“The good Lord doesn’t

giveabodymorethanabodycanbear,”JessamynsaidwithKyleandRichand thegroupofuniformedmenoverbytherailing and all of the peopleonthebridge.“Anddeathistheendofall

suffering,” more voicesresponded.They sang and stamped

their feet. The pavementunder her feet shook to thesoundofthemusic.Sheliftedher left foot and then herright, part of theAll, part ofthe mind making a joyfulnoise on the bridge, and italmostseemedthattherailingand the girders and thesidewalks of the bridgewerehumming and wailing andsingingalongwithher.

Chris was still singing andstamping her feet in unisonwith the others when thesurface under her suddenlyheaved, throwing herforward. She caught aglimpseofothers in the longlineat therailinggrabbingatoneanother,stillsinging.Abruptly the voices inside

her fell silent. She was soclosedinonherselfthatforamoment, she was afraid thatshe had gone deaf. Then she

heardasharptearingmetallicsound; the pavement aroundher seemed to be rippling.Everything under her heavedagain, nearly tossingher intotheair.People around her were

screaming. Grabbing at therailing,Chrispulledherselftoher feet and was thrownforward again. She caughtherself and hung on to therailing. She knew then thatthe bridge was collapsing

under them. She hung there,watching as people droppedfrom the bridge, fallingtoward the river in rows,almost as if someone hadchoreographed andsynchronized theirmovements,andthenlosthergrip and fell into thedarkness.

“Kyle!” the girl next toRichscreamed.“Kyle!”

Rich scrambled to his feet,trying to remember how hehadgottenhere.Hehadbeenwith the others over at themall and had followed themto the bridge. They had allbeen together, in perfectcommunion, monads withwindows open wide enoughtocatchahurricane,andnoweverything around him wasrippling and cracking andshaking like an earthquakehadhit.

“Anna!” he cried. He didnot know why he could nolonger hear the others.“Anna!” The pavementsuddenlyrippedopeninfrontof him.He had amoment ofrealizing that the bridge wascoming apart before hedroppedintotheabyss.

Chris felt a hard surfaceagainst her back andgradually became aware that

ablanketcoveredher.Asshedrewinsomeair,asharppainstabbed at her left side. Sheopened her eyes and saw adarkshapeloomingoverher.“Better stay still,” the

shadowyformsaidina tenorvoice. “You’ve got a brokenrib. You were one of theluckyones,lady.”Chris closed her eyes,

waited for a few moments,thenopened themagain.Thesky above herwas bluewith

daylight,theairwarmagainstherface.Shecarefullytookabreath and realized thatsomeone had taped heraround the midriff. Fightingthrough the pain, she forcedherself up and leaned on herrightelbow.She looked in the direction

of the bridge. All thatremained of the structurewere thepylons and someofthe metal framework andgirders. She was lying on a

stretcher along the bank;other stretchers with peopleon them were being carriedtoward the ambulances andother vehicles parked on theroad above them. Then shelooked out at the river andsaw the bodies.There had tobe over a hundred justfloatingthere,amidthesmallboats moving among them.Men on the boats werethrusting long poles into thewatertopullthebodiesout.

“Oh, my God,” Chrismurmured.“I know you.” A black-

hairedyoungwomaningreenscrubs squatted next to her.“You’re on the eleveno’clock news—Chrissomething.”“ChrisSzekely.”“I’mDr.Rahman.”Satellite trucks and a few

buses were parked on eitherside of the river. Chris sawtwovanswithnetwork logos

on them and another fromCNN. “How many?” Chrisasked.“Howmanywhat?”“Howmanydied?”Dr. Rahman cleared her

throat before answering. “Atleastathousandthatweknowof so far, and I don’t think alot of theothers are going tosurvive.” She paused. “Assoon as we get the seriouslyinjured on their way, we’llmove you and the ones who

aren’tsobadlyhurt.Theyhadto send in teams from as faraway as Windsor to handlethis.”Chriswassilent.“How did it happen?” the

physician asked. “I mean,what made all those peopleactlikethat?”Chris frowned. She could

not remember much ofanythingexceptdrivingtothemall with Bob Unger andthen being on the bridge in

themiddleofamob.“Idon’tknow,”shesaid.“Hey,” Dr. Rahman said,

“you’dbetterrest.Ishouldn’tbebotheringyounow.”Chris lay down again and

stared up at the sky. Therewas a kind of hole in hermind, inhermemory,almostas if something hadoverloaded her mentalcircuits and burned them outsomehow.Shegraspedatthatnotion,thinkingforamoment

that her memories werereturning to her, then closedhereyesoncemore.

Miller drove into Westviewand parked in front of theDairyQueen.Hecouldprettymuchgetwhateverheneededin Westview or out at theWal-Mart; there had been noneed for him to drive toHannaford.He had been avoiding

Hannaford for months now,eversincethenighttheDunnBridge had collapsed and allthosepeoplehadbeenkilled.Seeing it allonTVhadbeenenough,andforawhileithadbeenoneof thebiggestnewsstoriesinthecountry.Allthetalking heads had gone onabout mass psychoses andmobpsychology and a lot ofother speculation, and thenews crews had taped milesof footage of the Hannaford

Center Mall and the ruinedbridge and interviews withjust about anyone who hadbeen part of the mob andsurvivedandalsowithfamilymembersofthedead.Not, Miller thought, that

anyof themhadbeenable toshedanylightontheincident.Of the fewer than fourhundred survivors, no oneseemed able to remember ablamed thing. That ChrisSzekelyofWKLYhaddonea

five-minute interview withanother survivor, some girlnamedJessRichter,andeventhough they had both beenpart of the mob, neither ofthem could recall verymuchofwhathadhappened.Miller walked up to the

Dairy Queen take-outwindow, ordered a smallvanilla cone with chocolatedip, then wandered over tooneoftheoutdoortables.JoeAllardhadcalledhimupthat

morning, to tell him thatsomebody on the HannafordCity Council had promisedthat construction of the newbridge would be completedbynextyearandthatitwouldbealotsaferthantheoldone.HeandLoiswouldbeabletocomeoutandseeMillermoreoften without taking thatdarnedRouteFivedetour.Millersatdownandbitinto

the ice cream and chocolatecoating. The main street of

Westview, which a year agohad consisted of little excepttheDairyQueen,agasstationandconveniencestore,apostoffice, a bank, and a coupleof shops selling antiques andused books, was goingthroughabitofrevitalizationlately. A young couple hadrenovated one of the oldVictorianhousesonthestreetand turned it into theWestviewBedandBreakfast,and another Victorian had

been turned intooffices forasmall business. Somebodyhadtoldhimthatthebusinessused to have its offices nearthe Hannaford Center Mall,but had decided to move acouple of months ago. Well,he could understand wantingto do that, after the bridgecollapseandall.As he was finishing his

cone, a Honda pulled up infront of the Dairy Queen. Ayoungblondewomangotout

of the car and went to thetake-outwindow.Bythetimeshe was walking toward himwith her ice cream cone, heknewwhoshewas.Hemighthave recognized her sooner,but then he had neverexpectedtoseeChrisSzekelywandering around inWestview.Millergottohisfeetasshe

approached. “Miz Szekely,”he said. She lifted herperfectly arched brows.

“Name’s Miller Oretskin. Iusedtoseeyouonthenews.”“Used to.” The

newswoman’smouthtwisted.“Those are the operativewords.”“Youbeen…onvacation?”

Millerasked,tentative.“I was canned. Once I’d

done my stories about themob on the bridge, WKLYdidn’t need me any more.Management was beginningto worry about my future

mentalstability,too.”Shesatdown across from him andjust kept talking, surprisingMiller with her frankness.“Most of the Dunn Bridgesurvivors have had troublehanging on to their jobs, andat least half of them are intherapy.I lost twocolleaguesthere, Bruno Flick and mycameraman, JoeUnger.” Shegazed past him. “You know,if the news director had sentAlexaBrowneouttothemall

that night instead of me, ImighthavebeentheonewiththenetworkgiginNewYorknow.”“Well,youwerealwaysone

ofmyfavoritesontheActionNews,”Miller said as he satdownagain.Shesmiledathim.Shewas

an awfully pretty woman,even if she did look a lotthinner and somewhat olderthan she had on the news.“It’s nice of you to say so.

Thanks,Mr…”Shepaused.“Oretskin, but you can call

meMiller.”ChrisSzekelynibbledather

ice cream. “At least I don’thavetoworryaboutwatchingmyweightatthemoment.”“Wouldn’tthinkyou’dhave

toworryatallaboutthat.”Hetried to think ofwhat else tosay. “Hope things work outfor you. I thought you didgreatontheActionNews.”“Oh,something’llturnup.I

haveacoupleofapplicationsinwithold friends.A stationin my old home town isinterested.” She shook herhead. “Next to my hometown, even Hannaford is aswarmingmetropolis.”Miller, unused to keeping

up many conversations, letherfinishherconeinsilence,then said, “What brings youto Westview? If you don’tmindmyasking.”“Curiosity.”Shewasstaring

across the street at theremodeled white Victorianthat had been turned intooffices. The business hadinstalled one of those disheson the roof of the buildingnearagable,adishmuchlikehis satellite dish butconsiderably larger.MindData Associates, theycalled themselves.Accordingto Dan Howell, who ownedthe Dairy Queen, they hadsomething to do with

designing communicationsequipment, had some sort ofgovernment contract, andbought a lot of hot dogs andicecreamfromhim.“Curiosity?” Miller asked.

“Whatabout?”“MindData Associates.”

ChrisSzekelygesturedat thesign and logo in front of thewhiteVictorian.“Ispentalotoftimegoingthroughthelist,thepeoplewhodied,thoseofuswho survived, finding out

whatever I could abouteverybody. I guess I waslooking for some sort ofpattern,something thatmightexplainwhathappenedtous.”“And did you find

anything?”The reporter frowned. “We

were people of all ages, allkinds—there wasn’t anypattern that I could see. Buttherewasamanonthelistofthe dead who worked forMindData Associates, and I

found out later that anotherone of their employees, anelectronics engineer,committed suicide about aweek after the … after theincident.Iwasgettingkindofobsessed with looking for apattern by then. I keptwonderingwhatitmeant.”“Maybe not much,” Miller

said.“Except that every time I

think of MindDataAssociates, I keep thinking

that it does mean somethingand I’ve just forgotten.” Sheliftedherheadandhesawthedistress in her blue eyes. “Ikeep thinking that I shouldknow.WhenI foundout thatthey’d moved out toWestview, I …” Her voicetrailedoff.Miller supposed that he

shouldexcusehimselfandgoonabouthisbusiness, buthehad nothingmuch else to doexcept get some groceries at

the convenience store, and itwasn’t every day that he gotto converse with a TVpersonality. Besides, he feltsorryfortheyoungwoman.Itcouldn’t be easy for her,having to livewithwhat hadhappened and not knowinghowithadcomeabout.“What made you decide to

live in Westview?” ChrisSzekelyasked.“Actually, I live outside of

town. I’m way out in the

country. Guess I just wantedto be away from too manypeople.”“Maybeyou’vegottheright

idea. Sometimes people dotendtogettooclose.”There was no traffic along

the street, but that wasn’tunusual for themiddleof theafternoon.Acrosstheway,atMindData Associates, Millernoticed that a man wasleaningoutofoneofthethirdfloorgablestofiddlewiththe

bigdish.“Younevergetover it,you

know,”heheardhimselfsay,and felt the people on thebridge pressing around him,screaming as the surfaceundertheirfeetgaveway.Hefelt a hand grasp his own.“Oh,God,”hesaid,andheardChris repeat thewords insidehim, “I can remember now,”and he was on the bridge,resonating with the othersagain,partoftheAll.

Abruptly he was insidehimselfagain.Millersatstill,breathing hard, afraid tomove. He steadied himself.Probably been watching toomuch television, he thought,toomuchofthenews.Maybehe shouldn’t have watchedthat retrospective on thebridge disaster the othernight.He let go of the reporter’s

hand. The fellow across thewayhadfinishedwhateverhe

wasdoingtothedishandhadclosed the window again.“Oh, God,” Chris Szekelysaid, “I think it was comingbacktome,whathappened.”“A flashback,” Miller said.

“Guess that’s normal.” Hestoodupand lookeddownather.“Sureyou’regoingtobeallright,younglady?”She gave him a half-smile.

“I’ll be fine.When I get outofthisarea—I’llbefine.”“Hopeso.Alwayslikedyou

on the news.” He made hiswaytohispick-uptruck,thenglanced across the street.Something seemed to flutterattheedgesofhismindashegazed at thewhiteVictorian.Hewasgettingsuggestibleinhisoldage.Ifhedidn’twatchit, he might turn into one ofthose people who startedimaginingallkindsofstrangeplots and who thought weirdforces of some kind weresendingsignalstothem.

He got into the truck,fumbled inhispocket forhiskeys, and saw Chris SzekelypulloutinherHonda.Asshedrove out of town, he wasmomentarily tempted tofollow her, then turned easttoward the route that wouldtake him to his house.Sometimespeopledo tend togettooclosetoeachother,hethought.

Afterwordto“Common

Mind”:I first had the idea for thisstory—just a glimpse of ascene,whichisoftenhowmystories begin—in the early1990s. After making notesandwritingafewparagraphs,the story died onme, largelybecause I didn’t knowwhereitwasgoingandalsohadnotyet figured out why the

characters were behaving astheydid.Sometimes a story can be

forced, even if you don’tknowwhere it’s going, sincethere’s a chance you mightfind out where it’s headedduringtheprocessofwriting,butforcingastorycanalsobea wasteful enterprise. Scenesget written, fail, and have tobethrownout;falsestartsandabrupt halts are common.Occasionally theunconscious

will kick in and help youdiscover the story as you goalong,butusuallyastorythatrefusestobewrittenistellingthe writer that it isn’t yetready to be written. In thecaseof“CommonMind,”myproblem turned out to be alack of underlyingassumptions, a rationale forthe situation the charactersfaced. The writer doesn’thave toexplaineverything ina story, but does have to

knowmuchmorethaniseverrevealed to the reader for thestorytolive.Myconsciousmindhadlost

track of “Common Mind,”but apparently myunconscious had not yetgiven up on this tale. Wheneditor KimMohan askedmefor a story in the late 1990s,“Common Mind” sprangfrom my head immediately,this time fully formed. Amoremethodicalwritermight

have consulted her notes andpast drafts, but I ignoredmine, started writing fromscratch, and finished“Common Mind” in a fewdays.So to say that I dashed

“CommonMind”offmaybeaccurate enough, as far as itgoes. But the actual writingofanypieceofwork isoftenthe least of the writer’sefforts,thelaststageinaverylong process. The story’s

actual development tookyears,whichisalmostalwaysthecasewithme.

ALLRIGHTS

Darcy Langton dreaded herdaily journey to the postoffice. She knew only toowellwhathermailboxwouldyield—bills she could notpay, along with morerejections.Lately, no one wanted to

buyherstories;shewonderedwhyeditorskeptencouragingher to submit them. Maybe

they just wanted to keep heron tap in case the hot newwriterstheywerebuyingnoweither priced themselves outof the market or self-destructed. Maybe they justwanted to pretend they weregood guys after all, sensitivecaretakers of writing talentinstead of stripminers andexploitersofit.Maybeitwaspart of a vast conspiracy, inwhich editors regularly gottogetherandcackledaboutall

the suckers to whom theywere giving falseencouragement.Maybe—Going to the post office

oftenprovokedsuchmusings.Darcy’s agent would havetold her that it was simply amatter of too many storieschasing too few markets.Agents were supposed tothink that way, and LeonardMcDermottLowellwasmorehardheaded thanmost,whichwas one of the reasons she

had asked him to representherwork tenyearsago.Still,he hadn’t been doing muchfor her lately.Maybe hewastoo busy hyping his hot newclientstopublisherstotendtoherpaltrybusinessaffairs.Her post office box was

empty, except for asuspiciously thin envelopefrom Leonard McDermottLowell & Associates. Darcyclenchedherteeth,suspectingitwasa letter tellingher that

Canyon Books had rejectedherproposalforanewnovel.She locked her box, crossedthe room, and leaned againstatableasshepreparedtoreadof her doom. Disaster itwouldbe,aftersixmonthsofwaitingtohearfromaneditorwho had encouraged thesubmissiononly to lapse intoa lengthy silence. DarcywouldhavetogobacktoheroldjobatBurnsandRoyaltomake ends meet, assuming

the bookstore still had anopening. Leonard might atleast have called to tell herabout the rejection, and tocommiseratewithher,insteadofheartlesslynotifyingherinaletter.Shetoreopentheenvelope.

A statement from her agentfell out, along with a check.She stared at the check for along time, not daring tobelieve it. Twenty thousanddollars for a new edition of

her first novel, The SilentShriek, and this wasapparently only the first partof the advance. Leonard’sstatement revealed that morewould be forthcoming onpublication, six months fromnow.Ecstasy and an

overpoweringfeelingofreliefflooded throughher.Shehadbeen reprieved from thetormentofhaving togobackto working in a bookstore

where her own books wereconspicuously absent fromtheshelvesandalwayshadtobespecial-orderedbytheoneortwocustomerswhowantedtobuythemduringtheirbriefdurationinprint.Then she looked more

closely at her agent’sstatement.“Alt. Rights3,” the

statementsaidcryptically;thesame notation was on the

check.Whatthehellwerealt.rights? She knew aboutforeign rights, book clubrights, reprint rights ofvarious kinds, but she hadnever heard of anythingcalled alt. rights. And whatwas that 3 doing in there,anyway?Not that she really cared

where this unforeseen butwelcomewadhadcomefrom—Leonard was supposed to

worry about that—but it wasprobably in her interest tofindout.

Darcy placed a call toLeonard McDermott LowellandAssociatesassoonasshegot home; his assistant saidthat he would call her later.Darcy suspected that heragent was occupied withnegotiations involvingoneofhis hot young writers,

probablyDesiréeThorne,thatDanielleSteelclonewhohadjust had her latest piece ofbanal and basic prose pickedupby theLiteraryGuildasaMain Selection. Leonardwould be too busy withDesirée’sbusiness tocallheranytimesoon.Tohersurprise,Leonardgot

back to her in less than fiveminutes.“Howaboutthatcheck?”he

said jovially. “What about

them apples? Hope thatcheersyouup.Anyway,nowI can tell you that Canyonturned down your Terror IsMy Middle Name proposaltwodaysago.”“Uh, Leonard,” Darcy

murmured, “where did thatcheck come from? Whydidn’t you tell me it was onthe way sooner? You couldhave saved me a lot ofworry.”“Iwouldhavetoldyou,”he

said,“ifIwassureI’dgetthemoney.Frankly,Iwasn’t.It’sfor alternate rights, you see,and that’s a whole new ballgame.”Alternate rights? What the

hellwerealternaterights?Butthen thatwas one reason shehadanagent,soshewouldn’thavetoknowthingslikethat.A clause covering alternaterights and granting them toheragentwasprobablyinheroriginal book contract

somewhere among thetwenty-five pages of tinytype.Shehadstoppedreadingher contracts, whose prosewas either indecipherable orominous,awhileago.Alltheclauses and riders seemed toboil down to one assertion:Anythingbadthathappenstoyouasaresultofsigningthiscontract isyour fault andnotour responsibility,even ifwescrewup.“Whatarealternaterights?”

Darcyasked.“I’ll give you the short

versionofthestory,”Leonardreplied, “but keep it underyour hat, at least until itbreaks in Publishers Weeklyand theTimes, which shouldbeanydaynow.”Heloweredhis voice. “See, a couple ofmonths ago, this query cameinonmye-mail.Neverheardof this editor, or thepublisher, but she wanted topublish The Silent Shriek.

Well, I checked around withsome other agents, and theywere getting the same kindsof queries. Couldn’t trackdownanyof thesepublishersandeditors,eventhoughtheyall hadNewYork addresses.So, on a lark, I finally e-mailed back to thismysteriouseditorandtoldhertomakemeanoffer.Shedid,along with a contract that Iprinted out. One page, that’showlongthecontractwas.”

“One page?” Darcy said.“Why didn’t she mail it toyou?”“I asked her that myself.

Sheinsisteditwasvalid,thatif I e-mailed back myapproval,moneywouldbeontheway.Ifiguredithadtobea joke, somebody foolingaroundonline.Imean,who’sgoing to offer forty-fourthousand, including mypercentage,todoahardcoverofanovelthattookabathas

a paperback original? Notthat your book wasn’twonderful, but this deal justdidn’t make sense. Andwho’s going to send the bestgoddamnedcontractI’veeverseen? At least it’s good intermsofthewriter’sinterests.As far as the publisher goes,they’re practically givingeverythingaway.”“I still don’t see—” Darcy

began.“Well, I let her know we

had a deal,” her agentinterrupted. “My reply waspretty sarcastic, just so thisjoker would know I wasn’tfooled.Andthen,lastweek,aweek after I said okay, themoney came—twenty-twothousand for the first part oftheadvance.”“A week?” Darcy could

hardly believe her ears. “Apublishersentyouacheckina week?” That seemed asunbelievableasthesizeofthe

advance.“They didn’t actually send

it,” Leonard said. “Themoney showed up in myaccount electronically. Mybank checked and double-checked, and there’s noquestion the money wasdrawn on an account inanother New York bank anddeposited in mine, so mybank will honor it. They’rejust not sure exactly how itgot into the other bank.

Anyway,bythenafewotheragentshadsomeideaofwhatthis was all about. Alternaterights—that’s what we’dsold. These editors in someparallel universe hadsomehowmanagedtocontactthis one to buy bookspublished here. Maybe Ishouldsayparalleluniverses,because it looks like there’smore than one. I comparedthe contract I got with oneScottFontaneyreceivedfora

clientofhis,andthenwebothtalked to Mary Thalberg. Itwas a popular-science writerclientofherswhofiguredoutthatwehadtobedealingwithparallelworlds.”Leonard sighed and fell

silent. Darcy had to believehim; Leonard’s skepticismabout most matters wasdeeplyrootedincynicismandpessimism, essential qualitiesforanyliteraryagent.Hewasnotamantofallpreytowild

delusions.“Parallel worlds?” she said

atlast.“Buthow?”“It’sthegoddamnelectronic

highway, or whatever youwant to call it. That’s thisscience writer’s explanation,and a few physicists arebacking him up. Thecomputer networks andeverythingconnectedtothemare so complicated now thatmessages between differentuniversesareleakingintothe

system. At least somemessages are. Right now, itjust seems to be e-mail fromeditorswantingtobuybooks,their contracts, and theirdough coming throughelectronictransfersintobankshere. Don’t ask me why wehaven’t heard from anybodyelse.”“My God,” Darcy

murmured.“Andthatnumber3onyour

checkandstatementisaway

of keeping things straight.Half theagents inNewYorkgot together forapowwowacouple of days ago, anddecided that none of us wasgoing to question a goodthing.MaryThalbergandherclient worked out a roughsystemforustouse,basedondifferencesinthelanguageofeach contract, names ofpublishing firms, and whatlittle we’ve learned fromeditors about their particular

parallel worlds so we cankeep it straight whichcontract came from whichuniverse. I mean, wewouldn’t want to sellalternate rights inContinuum5 to a book that’s alreadycontractedforthere.”“No, you certainly

wouldn’t,”Darcysaid.Leonardwenton todiscuss

what an inside source hadtold him about a meetingseveral New York banking

executives had held withsome prominent physicistshastily called in asconsultants. The bankers hadtalked about prohibitingdeposits from alternateworlds,butwiththeeconomythe way it was, they had aneed for new cash flow. Aphysicist named SterlingBlake had apparently giventhebankerstherationalizationthey needed by assuringthem, with appropriate

equations, that all alternateuniverses were only aspectsof one reality. When thebankerslookedatitthatway,adeposit fromapublisher inParallelWorld 2 was just assound as one from aEuropeanpublisher.Actually,deposits from alternateworlds were even easier tohandle, since they involvedno currency conversions;everyone,sofar,wasdealingin dollars. The physicist’s

explanation might seemdrawnasmuchfromtheologyas from physics, but thebankswould take the leapoffaith. They could not ignorethe situation, and might aswell use it; profitwas profit,whatever the source. Ifenough business startedcoming in from otheruniverses—really importantbusiness, not just book deals—a lot of deficits could beredeemed.

“Who knows?” Leonardfinished. “Get enoughalternatemoolarollingin,andthegovernmentmight collectenough in taxes to make adent in the national debt.Doesn’t look like the IRS isgoing to make a stink—infact,IheardthatthisphysicistBlake was called down toWashington last night, rightafter the meeting with thebankers.”“Wait a minute.” Darcy

frowned. “I can sort ofunderstand how money cangobackandforth,buthowdothese alternate worlds orwhatever get copies of ourbooks?”“You’ve got a modem,

right?You’reinvolvedinthatonline workshop and bitchsessionorwhateverthehellitis, aren’t you? Mary’s clienthas a theory that the textsmust be leaking into theseparallelworldsthatway.”

“Makes sense, I guess,”Darcysaid.“As for your Terror Is My

Middle Name proposal, wecould try Diadem Books.They’restartinganewhorrorline.”“I’ll think about it,” Darcy

said. “Alternate rights. Well,if I’m getting forty grand,Desiree Thorne ought to beworth a fortune in alternaterights.”“Probably,” Leonard said

cheerfully.“Iexpecttogetanoffer for her novels beforelong.”As it happened, Darcy’s

agentwaswrongaboutthat.

“You’ll never believe it,”Jane Rubell said over thephone. “Sixty thousandsmackers for Plumbing theDepths.Andmyagent thinkshe’llgetanofferforFlushingOutDeath,too.”

“I can believe it,” Darcysaid. Jane Rubell, anotherfreelancewriterwho lived inan adjoining town, was herclosest friend. They oftendroveintoNewYorktogetherto see editors, pooling theirmeager resources by sharinga room in a run-down hoteland splitting other expenses.At other times, they gottogether with their colleagueArlen Williams to complainand exchange horror stories

about publishers. Jane hadwritten a series of paperbackmysteriesfeaturingaplumberwhowasalsoasleuth,butherbooks had not done well,eitherbecausemostplumbersdidn’t read or because mostmystery readers weren’tenthralled by plumbing.Darcy was a trifle annoyedthat Jane had landed a largeradvance for hardcoveralternate fights to her firstmystery than Darcy had for

The Silent Shriek, but wasstillhappyforherfriend.“Iwas talking toArlen the

other day,” Jane went on,“and he told me he got fiftygrand for a hardcover ofWarlordsofMimistapol.”Fifty thousand for a book

Arlencalledoneofhisworst?Darcy could believe eventhat. She had been readingPublishers Weekly beforeJane called, where a newarticle about alternate rights

hadappeared.Generoussumsfor insignificant books byunknown writers—thatseemed to be the pattern.According to this article,DanielleSteel, JudithKrantz,andJohnGrishamhadnotyetreceived offers for alternaterightstotheirnovels.Perhaps that was why the

trade publications weren’tdevoting as much space toalternaterightsdealsasDarcyhad expected. Newspapers

and television, aftersaturating front pages andnewscasts with stories aboutthis new development, nowmentionedthesubjectonlyinpassing. As Carl Sagan hadso tellingly put it onNightline, these othercontinuawerereallyonlyoneworld with variants, oneworld in different states. Inwhich case, Ted Koppel hadadded, it made sense toaccept that fact and then go

about one’s business.Stranger things hadhappened; people had seenthe Berlin Wall come down,theSovietUnioncollapse,theresortsofYugoslaviabecomekilling grounds, and theleadersofIsraelandthePLOshake hands. “Absorb theimpossible and move on,”Koppel’s colleague JeffGreenfield had blurted outthen. “It’s what we alwaysdo.”

In addition to that, mostAmericans didn’t much careif a writer was wildlysuccessful in another countryin this world, let alone inanother universe, if hedidn’tmake a big noise in theU.S.of A. A story about editorsbuying rights to obscurebooks wasn’t the kind ofnews to dominate the mediafor long, even if the editorsbuying the books were inother continua. The only

publishing stories that reallycountedtothepublicat largewere talesofmega-advances,surprisebestsellersbyformernonentities, book dealsinvolving celebrities,accounts of lurid crimesscheduled to appear in bookform before becomingtelevision docudramas, andnews of movie rights beingsoldtoStevenSpielberg.In spite of that, Darcy was

convinced that someone like

Dean Koontz wouldeventually nail down analternate rights deal thatwoulddwarfanypastdeal inany universe. Then CNNmightagaindevotemorethanfifteen seconds to the story.Inthemeantime,sheandJanemight as well enjoy theirgoodfortune.“What’s the number for

yourrights?”Darcyasked.“Myagent’s statement says

‘Alt. Rights6’,” Jane replied.“Obviously a publisher in adifferentcontinuumisbuyingrightstomystuff.”“That seems to be the

pattern,” Darcy said. “PWclaims that about fiftydifferent universes areinvolved so far, and there’sno overlap—they all seem tobe buying different authors.Must be a pain for all ouragents to keep things

straight.”“Where lots of money is

concerned, they alwaysmanage. Hey, I think weshould celebrate. How about—”The phone was clicking in

Darcy’s ear. “Hold on asecond. Another call’scoming in.” She put Jane onhold and heard her agentshoutagreeting.“Yo, Leonard,” Darcy

replied.

“Readyforsomemoregoodnews?”hesaidjovially.“Sure.”“I heard from Elysium

House today.” It took a fewmoments for Darcy torecognize the name of herpublisherinParallelWorld3.“Ihopeyou’resittingdown,”Leonardwenton.“TheysoldpaperbackrightstoTheSilentShriek. Four hundredthousanddollars.”“Four hundred thousand

dollars?”Darcysqueaked.“And that isn’t all. They

want rights to In Terms ofTerror. They’re offering ustwo hundred thousand forthat.”Darcysuckedinherbreath.“But I think Icanget them

uptothreehundred.”

“IpromisedmyselfI’dtakealong cruise,” Jane said, “if Iever made major money.

Now I’m worth over amillion, and I’m afraid to gooutthedoor.Imean,ameteormight fall on me orsomething. That’s about onthe sameorderofprobabilityas my becoming amillionaire.”“I know what you mean,”

Arlen Williams muttered.“I’ve got all this moneycoming in, and all I’ve donesofaristellmysonhecangotoHarvardandtakehisjunior

yearabroadbesides.Thingis,I never expected to havemuchdough,soIdon’tknowwhattodowithitall.”“You’reafraidthemoney’ll

dry up,” Darcy said. “We’reall just too damned used tobeingpoor.”“That’s part of it,” Arlen

said as he dipped a smallsilver spoon into the caviar.“Kind of ridiculous, actually.All I need is some goodfinancialadvice, toset things

up so I can be secure for awhile. Trouble is, I don’tknow anything abouthandling finances. I don’tevenknowwhotogetadvicefrom.”Darcy had the same

problem. Her past fiscalaffairs had been operated onone basic principle: Makesure you can always borrowenough to pay off whatyou’vealreadyborrowed,andsooner or later things will

either sort themselves out oryou’ll be dead before youhave to settle. She had nodebtsnow,havingpaidallhercreditors,andnoideaofhowtohandleherassets.Jane sipped some more

champagne, then leanedforward. “I heard,” she saidsoftly, “that Desirée Thornestill hasn’t sold any alternaterights. Has your agent saidanythingtoyouaboutthat?”“Leonard doesn’t discuss

clients with other clients,”Darcysaid,butshewonderedabout that herself. Leonardhad to be disappointed. Still,even Stephen King had notmanaged tosellanyalternaterights. A theory about thereasonforthatwasforminginher mind. Maybe StephenKing wasn’t getting anyoffers for alternate rightsbecause, in every possibleuniverse, there alreadywas aStephen King, a literary

juggernaut so overwhelmingthat no continuum couldpossibly be without one ofhim. There were probablyalso countless versions ofMichael Crichton, Jean M.Auel, Anne Rice, TomClancy, and other mainstaysof the bestseller list in otherparallel worlds; their editorsthere would have no need tobuy the work of theircounterparts in this universe.It was only insignificant

writers such as Darcy thatthey would buy, writers sounimportant that theyprobably existed in only onecontinuum.These speculations were

making her feel depressed,and there was no excuse fordepression now. She wasfalling into old habitsacquired when she was poorand struggling. Leonardwouldtellher,ashehadafterselling Melanesian rights to

her novel Terror Takes NoTime Out, that even such alimitededitionmightincreaseher readership.Hewould tellher to be glad that she wassuchabigdealinatleastonecontinuum.And she was a big deal in

Parallel Universe 3. ElysiumBooks was now sellingforeignrightsinthatworldtoThe Silent Shriek and InTerms of Terror, and theirversion of the Book-of- the-

MonthClubhadboughtbothnovels. Surely that provedthat she had underestimatedherselfandherwork,andhadtoo readily assumed that herwriting was unexceptionalbecause publishers treated itso indifferently. She hadaccepted and eveninternalizedtheirvaluationofher work. The treatment herbooksweregettinginanothercontinuum only proved thather publishers in this world

werewrong.The same was true of her

friends and their writing. Itwasn’t Jane’s fault that theingenuity and wit of hermysterieswerewasted on anaudienceunabletoappreciatethe details of the plumbingtrade. Arlen might havecommitted Warlords ofMimistapol to paper, but hehadalsowonaGoldenTomeAward for his ornate andsensual Prince of Ithlakkan

trilogy.Afterall,hadn’tshealways

told herself that it was thewriting itself that counted,and not what others thoughtofit?Her good fortune proved

that she had been right topersevere.

ItwasalmostmidnightwhenDarcy pulled up in front ofher house; it had taken her a

while to sober up afteroverindulging at Jane’s. Shelocked her Mercedes,wondering if she shouldarrange for a chauffeur andlimothenexttimeshevisitedher friend; that way, itwouldn’t matter how muchshedrank.Of course, it wouldn’t be

wise to let suchvicesget thebetter of her, now that shehad so much to live for.Perhaps she should contact

the Lucky Scribes, aninformal network severalnewly affluent writers hadformed to exchange ideas onhow to handle the suddenwealth parallel worlds wereshowering upon them. TheLuckyScribes,fromwhatshehadheard,spentmostoftheirtime complaining aboutwriter’s block, which wasapparently proliferatingamong them now that theycouldaffordmoreleisureand

self-indulgence, but some ofthemmightbeable toadviseheronothermatters.Darcy climbed the stairs to

her second-floor apartmentand unlocked her door. Herleasewould be up soon. Shewouldhavetodecidewhetherto move into a luxuryapartmentdowntownorbuyahouse in thecountry.Even ifshe wanted to stay here, herlandlord was likely to raiseher rent as much as possible

to take advantage of herrecent prosperity, while thejokes her neighbors madeabouthittingherupfor loanswerebeginningtosoundbothmore insistent and moreresentful.The light on her phone’s

answering machine wasblinking. Darcy hit themessagebuttonandsatdowntolisten.“Darcy, this is Leonard,”

themachine said. “It’s about

fouro’clock.IjustgotoffthephonewithGertrudeBanner,your Elysium House editor.Yeah, you heard that right.She called me up, I actuallyheard her voice. Looks likecommunications from otheruniversesareleakingintothephone lines now. Anyway,shewantstotalktoyou.Callme tomorrow, soon as youcan.”

“She wants to talk to me?”Darcy said to her agent thenextmorning.“Aboutwhat?”“About your next book. I

managed to drop a few hintsabout your Terror Is MyMiddle Name proposal, andshethinksitsoundsgreat,butshe wants to talk to you.She’s really insistent—calledback just a few minutes agoto ask if I’d heard from youyet.”Leonard had talked to her

Elysium House editor twice!Amazing, Darcy thought. Iftelephone conversationswerepossible now, what next?Faxes from other worlds?Maybe a book tour, ifsomeone could figure outhowtomovebodies,andnotjust information, from onecontinuum to another.Anything might be possible.She might actually decide tosettledowninParallelWorld3 permanently; writers, after

all, had often beenexpatriates.“I guess I should talk to

her,”Darcymurmured.“Howdidshesound?”“Like she grew up in

Brooklyn and didn’t quitemanage to get rid of heraccent. Anyway, I was sureyou’d appreciate a chance toschmooze,soItoldheryou’dbe looking forward to hercall. She said she’d callsometime this afternoon,

probablyaroundthree.”“MyGod.”“Andshewasmakingafew

noises about doing a shortstorycollectionofyours.”A short story collection!

Wouldwonders never cease?At this rate,GertrudeBannerwould soon be expressinginterest in her memoirs.Darcy had begun anautobiography some monthsback, abandoning the projectafter realizing that people

uninterested in her fictionprobably wouldn’t be anymoreinterestedinherlife.“Anyway,letmeknowhow

it goes,” Leonard continued.“Frankly,Ithinkthesky’sthelimitatthispoint.”

Toward three, Darcy wasgrowing increasingly moreagitated. She had spoken toplenty of editors in her life,but they had usually been

people who regarded hernovels largely as a relativelyinexpensive way to fill slotson their lists.The only timesthey called were to ask herwhenhernextnovelwouldbefinished. “You have to keepupyourshelfpresence!Don’tleave me with empty rackspacetofill!”Shehadalwayssensed such unspokenthoughts behind any offhandpraise theeditorsmightofferforherbooks.Shehadnever

spoken to anyone whowantedtoinvestbigbucksinherwork, orwho treated heras much more than a tempwho would eventually bereplaced, or as a migrantworkerwhocouldbe runoffthefarm.Maybe, she thought as she

fluttered around the phone,Gertrude Banner wouldn’tcall today.Darcy had knownmore than a few editorswhoseemed to assume that two

months was an appropriatewaiting period beforereturningoneofhercalls.But the phone rang

promptly at three. Editors inalternate worlds apparentlycalled when they said theywould.“Hello?” Darcy said,

realizing too late that hernervousness made her soundlikeRockytheSquirrel.“Darcy Langton?” a

woman’s voice with a touch

ofBrooklynsaid.Thathadtobe Gertrude Banner, and shedid sound a little like thefemale New Yorker MikeMyers played in drag in his“Coffee Talk” routine onSaturdayNightLive.“Speaking,” Darcy said,

dropping her voice into theMaryTylerMoorerange.“I’mdelighted to hear you

at last,” the woman saidenthusiastically. “This isGertrudeBanner, your editor

at Elysium House. I justfinished reading yourwonderful Terror Takes NoTime Out—I simply can’tremember when I’ve hadsuch a good time. What aterrificread—Icouldn’tputitdown.” Darcy did not havethe heart to interrupt asGertrude went on about howsuspenseful and brilliantlywritten her novel was. “Iwant to buy it, of course,”Gertrudefinished.

“Uh, you’ll have to talk tomyagentaboutthecontract.”“Well, of course. But the

main reason I called is that Ihearyou’reworkingonanewbook. I think Leonardmentionedthetitle—”“Terror Is My Middle

Name,”Darcysaid.“That’stheone.”“Leonard can e-mail the

proposal toyou,”Darcysaid.“That’s probably the easiest…”

“Oh,Darcy.Idon’tneedtoseeaproposalfromyou. Justtellmeyou’lldoTerrorIsMyMiddleNameforme,andI’llstart discussing the advanceand contract with your agentrightaway.”Darcy could not bring

herself to speak. “Um,” shesaidatlast.“I’msopleased. Ican’t tell

you how much I’m lookingforward toworkingwith youonthat.Thisisreallygoingto

be exciting. I know you’llneed more for this one thanwegaveyou for InTerms ofTerror, but I just knowLeonardandIcancometoanagreement that will make usallhappy.”“Um,”Darcysaidagain.“Wonderful! I’m just so

excited!”Gertrudewentontomention another pendingbook club deal and theprospect of interviews nowthatThe Silent Shriek looked

like a sure bet for thebestseller lists. It was a pityDarcy couldn’t be there inperson, but at least now shecouldbeinterviewedoverthephone. Too bad also thatthere was no way to sendauthor’s copies from onecontinuum to another. ButGertrude could upload somematerial from a CD-ROMthatwouldgiveDarcyanideaofhowthebookwould look,and she could rest assured

thatoneof thebestdesignersin the business had done herdustjacket.“AndIinsistedonfullcloth

for thebook,”Gertrudewenton, “a nice red shade, withGothic gold lettering on thespine— and acid-free paper,of course. But we’ll also bedoing a special collectors’edition of one thousandcopiesinleather.”“Um,” Darcy said. There

wasn’tmuchmoretosay.All

in all, even though theconversation was basicallyone-sided, it was by far thebestdiscussionwithaneditorshehadeverexperienced.

“IranintoEdwinaMaristhismorning,” Jane murmured toDarcyas she sat down.Theywere sitting in PhilDonahue’s green room,waiting to go on his show.Three other writers were

already out in the studiofielding questions from theaudienceabout theiralternaterights deals, but Darcy hadbeentoldsheandJanewouldbegoingonafterthebreak.“What about Edwina?”

Darcyasked.“Oh, she was being really

bitchy. I think her new bookjustgotremaindered.”“But it only came out five

monthsago.”“Well,youknowhowitis,”

Jane said. “Anyway, that’snot the point. She just saw areally shitty review of TheWrench Tightens in Kirkus,and made a point of tellingme all about it. She lookedabsolutelydelighted.”“Whatdoyoucare?”Darcy

said. “You only got about amilliondollars so far forTheWrenchTightens inAlternateWorld6.”“Yeah, I know. I shouldn’t

care, but I do. I’m stuck in

thisuniverse,Darcy,andhereI’m just a midlist paperbackmystery writer. Maybe I’meven flattering myself bysaying I’mmidlist. Imean, Ihavetolivehere.I’monlyonthebestsellerlistsinaworldIcan’tevengetto.”Jane sounded totally

bummed. Darcy hated toadmit it even to herself, butshewasfeelingthesamewaylately. She had thought itmightbeherusualdepression

after finishing a book, butthere was more to her lowspirits than that. She hadcompleted Terror Is MyMiddleName aweek ago, inrecord time, buoyed byGertrude Banner’sencouragement and praiseandElysiumHouse’smillion-dollar advance.Terror IsMyMiddle Name was her bestnovelsofar,butLeonardhadnot yet found a publisher forthe book here. The Silent

Shriekwas still number 1 onAlternateWorld3’sbestsellerlists, but it remained out ofprint in this world. Darcymighthavefinallymade it toPhil Donahue’s show, butonly as part of a programabout this alternate rightsbusiness.Tomostpeople,sheand her colleagues wereprobablyevenlessinterestingthan a random selection oflottery winners; a glance atthegreenroom’smonitortold

her that Phil’s audience wasalready getting bored. DavidLetterman had booked a fewalternaterightsmillionairesasguests on his show, but onlyto poke fun at them. OprahWinfrey hadn’t invited anysuchwritersatall.And now she, her friend

Jane, and others like themhad to suffer the scorn ofwriterssuchasEdwinaMaris.Edwina was one of thosecritically acclaimed but

commercially unsuccessfulwriters, with a small butvociferouscultfollowingthatwaswaitingforherto“breakout.” Along with many suchwriters, Edwina shared abitingwit, a gift for sarcasmand irony, and scorn forwriters who appealed to thelowestcommondenominator.Once Edwina had directedher barbs at the denizens ofbestseller lists.Now, sheandher underappreciated

colleagueshadnew targets—the merely adequatewordsmiths who appealed tomass audiences only in otheruniverses.Darcy knew how Edwina

felt. From Edwina’s point ofview, her own failure to sellalternate rights was simplyfurther proof of her work’sworth, since those writerssigning such contracts were,toEdwina,onlyhacksunableto achieve success in their

ownworld. Darcy sighed. InEdwina’s shoes, she mighthave felt exactly the sameway.“Better crank up my hair.”

Jane poked at her permed,highlighted, and stylishly cutblondelockswithagoldpick.“Wehavetogoonafterthis

ad.”

After their appearance, Janewent off to comfort herself

with some shopping. Darcytook her limo back to theRoyalton, where she hadpromised to meet her agentfor drinks. She and Janehadn’t exactly lighted a fireunder Phil Donahue’saudience. Phil himself hadgrown increasingly manic inhiseffortstoworkthecrowd,and had spent the last fiveminutes of the programdeliveringamonologueabouthis own failure to sell

alternate rights to hisautobiography.Leonard was pacing in the

hotel lobby.He came towardher as soon as she wasthroughthedoor.“Comeon,”hesaid,“we’regoingtoMaryThalberg’s.”“Whatfor?”“Don’task.”Heherdedher

back outside. “This isdisaster. This is absolute,totaldisaster.”“Letmeguess,”Darcysaid.

“MoneyfromElysiumHouseisn’t legal tender any more.The IRS just reversed itsruling, right? That’s whyyou’rehere.YoucametotellmeI’mbroke.Ialwaysknewitwastoogoodtobetrue.”“No,no.You’restillloaded.

But there’s some heavy dutyshit coming down the pikeanyway.” He pushed hertowardthelimo.

Leonard was silent all theway to Mary Thalberg’soffices on the East Side.Mary’s partner and assistantshad gone home by the timethey arrived, but the agentwas still in her office. Acomputerwasinonecorner;awidescreen TV, completewith speakers and VCR, satagainstonewall.Mary’shighheels sank into her pilecarpeting as she pacedsoundlessly and took deep

dragsonacigarette.“I thought you quit

smoking,”Leonardsaidtotheotheragent.“I relapsed. I should die of

lungcanceranywaynowthatso many of my clients gotscrewed.” Mary wavedLeonard and Darcy to hersofa.“Leonard’salreadyseenthis,buthewantedyoutoseeit,too.”“Seewhat?”Darcyasked.“Didn’t he tell you? My

clientsalreadyknow,theonesthat have alternate rightsdeals. I informed them allimmediately. Actually,they’vebeen taking thenewsvery well. Anyway, Leonardasked—”“Just show her,” Leonard

saidglumly.“Iwasonthephone,”Mary

said, “talking to an editor inParallelWorld7.HadtheTVontotapeDaysofOurLives,soIhavesomethingtowatch

whenpeopleputmeonhold,you know? While I wastalking,Ilostthepicture,and—well, this iswhatmyVCRtapedinstead.”Mary pointed a remote at

the TV. An image came on,slightly blurred and withoutsound,butDarcycouldmakeout the tiny formof a youngman sitting behind a largemahogany desk, apparentlytalking to someone on thephone. The room dwarfed

him;theplacewasthesizeofMadisonSquareGarden, andthe walls were lined withpaintings that looked to heruntrainedeye likeBotticellis.An older man was walkingtoward the desk, bearing achina teapot and cups on asilvertray.Darcycouldn’tbecertain, but thought sheglimpsed a swimming poolthrough the glass doorsbehindtheyoungman.“That’s the guy I was

talking to today,”Mary said.“LorneEfferman,aneditoratCotter and Crowe—that’s apublisher in Parallel World7.”Shepaused.“Wewere inthe middle of ourconversationwhenIsawthaton the TV. I immediatelyguessed itwasLorne,andhereluctantly confirmed it.Seems some signals fromotheruniversesareleakinginover the cable.” The imageflickeredout;Maryturnedoff

the TV. “Let me be morespecific. Lorne Efferman isan assistant editor at CotterandCrowe.”“An assistant editor,”

Leonard mumbled. “Not anexecutive editor, or a senioreditor, or even just a plaineditor. An assistant editor.Makes you wonder what thegoddamn publisher’s officelooks like—probablyVersailles.”“My God,” Darcy

whispered.“I was seeing if Lorne

might be interested in somenovelsbyoneofmyclients,”Mary said. “I’d already soldalternate rights to them inParallel World 8, but Ithought I’d feel Lorne out.We’ve been waiting foralternate publishers to cometous,butIfigureditwastimeto be a little moreaggressive.”“And?”Darcyasked.

“Lorne explained—verynicely, not that it helped—thatIdidn’thavethoserightsto offer him. ‘Look at yourcontracts,’ he told me, so Idid. I never signed thosecontracts,I’mpositiveofthat,but my name was on them,and every contract had thesame damned clause. I knowit wasn’t in any of myalternate rights contractsbefore—I’d never haveapproved any of them if it

were.But it’s therenow,andIhavenowaytoprovethatIdidn’t let that clause gothrough!”Mary put out her cigarette

and lit another. “Whatclause?”Darcyasked.“The clause that says we

haven’t been selling to justone universe when we signthose contracts. We’ve beengiving one publisher in thatparticular universe rights tosellanybookwegivethemto

everyotheruniverse.Andwedon’t get one extra fuckingcent!”“Let me put it this way,”

Leonard muttered from theotherendofthesofa.“Seemsthe contracts go intouncertainty and then don’tmatch the worlds they werewritten in. They drift. Youend up with a differentcontract than the one youstarted with.” He chuckledmirthlessly. “A lot of you

writers would say that’snothingnew.”“ButIgetroyalties,”Darcy

said,“don’tI?”“That’s just on sales in

Parallel World 3,” Leonardreplied. “I checked yourcontracts.Yougetyourshareof book club money andforeign sales and everythingelse, but only from sales inthat universe. They get tokeep everything else. That’sprobably how they can pay

such nice advances toeverybody.”He glared at theblankTVscreen.“That’showsome dipshit little assistanteditor can have an office bigenough to hold the goddamnFrankfurtBookFairin.”“But—”Darcybegan.“I put in a call to that

physicist Sterling Blake,”Mary said. “Our agents’association put him onretainerawhileback.Hesaidsomething about uncertainty

creeping into our continuum,about the wave functions ofperception shifting orwhatever. I think it meanswe’re in a different universefrom the one we were in afewdaysago.”Sheletoutherbreath. “Blakehas somenewequations to play with now,soofcoursehe’s just thrilledtodeath.”They were all silent for a

longtime.AtlastDarcysaid,“Does it really matter?

ElysiumHousepaidmesomeserious money. They didbeautiful editions, even if Ican’tgetanyauthor’scopies.I could retire andneverhavetoworry aboutmoney again,andyouand theother agentsare raking inplenty from thedealsanyway.”“That isn’t the point,”

Leonardsaid.Darcyhadknownthateven

as she spoke. The agentswould never forgive

themselves for letting allthose alternate rights slipaway, however inadvertently.Andshe,alongwithhernow-wealthy colleagues, wouldhave to live with theknowledgethat,eveninothercontinua, publishers couldstill rip you off and not payyou what your work wasreallyworth.Notthatthisnewlyacquired

wisdomshouldhavecomeasmuch of a surprise to any

writer.

Mary and Leonard werefeeling a little better by thetime Darcy left them to goback to her hotel. The twoagents had to bephilosophical about matters.Anyway, according to thegrapevine,itlookedasthoughthis alternate rights businesswas heading toward adownturn of sorts. Mary

hadn’t heard of any newalternate rights contractsbeing signed for nearly amonth,andacoupleofagentsshe knew had reported thattheir calls were no longergoing through to a couple ofcontinua. Time to collect asmuch as they could for theirclients just incase thingsgotevenmoreuncertainandtheyended up cut off from otherparallel worlds altogether.They probably wouldn’t be

able to sue for anyuncollectedpaymentslateronunless attorneys in thisuniverse got even moreingenious than they alreadywere.Darcy was set. She had to

look at it that way. IfDonahue’saudiencehadbeenmore interested in whethersheknewStephenKingor inhow she was going to spendhermoneythaninherbooks,she could live with that.

Edwina Maris might getbetter reviews, but raves onthe front page of the NewYork Times Book Reviewhadn’t noticeably fattenedEdwina’s bank account. IfElysium House was rippingDarcy off, then at least therewould still be all thosemillions of readers inGertrude Banner’s worldreading In Terms of Terrorand Terror Takes No TimeOut.

She had to think of it thatway. It was the work thatmattered. Her true rewardwas thewriting itself,wasn’tit?Noone could deprive herof the vivid moments shespent in worlds of her owncreation, or of the sense ofaccomplishmentshefeltafterfinishingafinaldraft.But then the image of a

publisher somewhere, sittingin the midst of splendorgreaterthanthatoftheHearst

estateatSanSimeon,cametoher. The bastards of thisworld,andeveryotherworld,always won in the end; theydidn’t care about the writerstheyexploited.Darcygroundher teeth. Shewould have togetholdoftheLuckyScribesand ask them for someadvice. She could feel awriter’sblockcomingon.

Afterwordto“AllRights”:“AllRights”maybeseenasacompanion piece to a storythat appears later in thisvolume,“TheNovellaRace.”Both are about writing, but“All Rights” is more aboutthebusinessofwriting,whichseems appropriate for a talethat features writers.Dedicated and devotedreaders,andalsoyoungerand

more naive writers, cansometimes feel dismay anddisillusionment upondiscovering that the mostpopular topics of discussionamong gatherings of writersare not aethestics, favoriteclassics of literature, theartistic demands of the craft,or even thenuts andbolts ofputting a story together; butinsteadmoney,contracts,andpublishers.I wrote this story during a

time when being a writer atall seemed an utterly futileendeavor. A deepeningdepression, along with life’smore pressing practicalities,were increasingly propellingme towardadecision togiveupwritingasaprofession.Inthe end, I didn’t, but maybethat’s because while writing“All Rights,” Iwas still ableto find some humor in thefate of the vast majority ofAmerican writers, from the

besttotheworst—namely,tobe invisible, ignored, andforgotten, at least in thiscontinuum. All the morereason,Isuppose,forwritingto be its own reward, sincethat is likely to be the onlyenduring reward most of useverreceive.

DANNYGOESTOMARS“Mars is essentially in thesame orbit [as Earth]. Marsis somewhat the samedistance from the sun, whichis very important. We haveseenpictureswheretherearecanals,webelieve,andwater.If there is water, that meansthere is oxygen. If oxygen,thatmeanswecanbreathe.”

—J.DanforthQuayle,Vice-PresidentoftheUnited

States,asquotedinMotherJones,January1990

The Vice-President hadknownthat thisWhiteHouselunchwouldbedifferent.Forone thing, the President’svoice kept shifting from hisMr.Rogers pitch to his JohnWayne tone, and that alwaysmade Dan nervous. Foranother, the former Chief of

Staffwasthereasaguest,andthatbotheredhim.John Sununu might have

mouthed off in public abouthow much Dan had learnedonthejob,butawayfromthecameras,hisbigM.I.T.braincouldn’t be bothered withevensayinghellototheVice-President. Not that it reallymattered,sinceNunu,asmostof the White House staffcalled him behind his back,had pretty much treated

everybody that way, exceptwhenhewashavingatempertantrum. Almost everyonehad been relieved when theformer Chief of Staff hadbeen eased out of thatposition.Now, here he was in the

White House again, sittingaround at this intimate lunchas if he still had thePresident’s full confidence.Maybe the President neededBig John’s help on some

scientific deal or other; Danhoped it was that, and notsomething political. Hesquinted slightly, thinking ofRobert Stack. That was theticket, putting on thatRobertStack I’m-a-nice- guy-but-don’t-mess-with-me kind ofexpression.“Asqueaker,”thePresident

said,“arealsqueaker.Almostdidn’t pull it out. TheDemocrats—bad. Attackfrom the right—even worse.

Gotsomethingupoursleeve,though—they’ll say, Neversawthatcoming.”The Vice-President tried to

look attentive. Sometimes hecouldn’t figure out what thePresident was talking about.Once he had worried aboutthat, before discovering thatmany members of theWhiteHouse staff had the sameproblem.“Council on

Competitiveness,and,uh,the

space thing, too—you’re ourmanthere,”thePresidentwassaying now. Marilyn hadguessed that the Presidentmightbetoyingwiththeideaof a space spectacular, andBig John,whatever his lacksinthepoliticalarena,wasoneofthefewadvisorswhocouldunderstand the scientific insandouts.Itmadesense,whatwith thatbigbreakthrough indeveloping an engine forspacetravel.Dandidn’tknow

exactlyhow itworked,but itcouldgeta ship to theMoonalmost overnight—if therewasan“overnight”inspace.“Mars,” the President said.

“Abouttime.”“Mars?” Dan sat up. That

was an even better idea thangoingtotheMoon.“We’re sending out

feelers.”TheformerChiefofStaff adjusted his glasses,lookingas if thisprojectwashis idea. Maybe it was;

maybe that was how he hadgotten back into thePresident’sgoodgraces.“TheJapanese have hinted theymight footmostof thebill ifone of their people is amongthe astronauts. The Saudis’llpickuptherestifwegetoneof their men on board. TheRussians would do almostanything to take theirpeople’s minds off the messover there, and we can useoneofthoselong-termhabitat

modules they’ve developedfor the crew’s quarters.Putting a cosmonaut on thecrew in return for thatwouldbeahellofalotcheaperthansending more aid down thatrathole.”“Impressive,” the President

said.“Won’tcostus.”“We can get this going

before the mid-termelections,” Big Johnmuttered. “America’sreachingforthestarsagain—

that should play prettygoddamnedwell,andyoucanuse the brotherhood angle,too.” He shifted his stockybody in his chair. “A crashprogramforbuildingtheshipwillcreatejobs.Thecrewcanbetrained,andtheshipreadyto go, by the summer ofninty-five.TwoweeksorlesstoMars,dependingonwhereit is in relation to Earth’sorbit, and back in plenty oftime for the Presidential

primaries.”“With the new nuclear

fission-to-fusion pulseengine,” Dan said, “that’spossible.” He’d picked up afew things during hismeetings with the SpaceCouncil. He was a littleannoyedthatnoonehadevenhinted at the possibility of aMars trip, but then he wasusually the last guy to findanythingout.“Withthatkindof engine, we could cross

from,say,MercurytoJupiterin less thanahundreddays.”He had heard one of theNASAboys say that.Or hadit been less than thirty days?Not that it made that muchdifference,atleasttohim.The former Chief of Staff

lifted his brows in surprise.Sununuhadahabitoflookingat him like that sometimes,the way Dan’s high-schoolteachers and collegeprofessors had looked at him

whenheactuallymanaged tocome up with a correctanswer.“But you know,” the Vice-

President continued, “youcould take longer to train thecrew, and have this wholeMarsdealgoingonduringtheprimary season. That mightactually help me more,having it happen right whileI’mrunning.”“Two terms,” the President

said,soundingalotmorelike

JohnWaynethanMr.Rogersthis time. “Straight line fromnineteen-eighty. I want aRepublican in the WhiteHouse in two-thousand-and-one. Maybe the Navy bandcould play that music at theinauguration, you know, thepieceinthatmovie—”“AlsoSprachZarathustra,”

theformerChiefofStaffsaid,then turned toward theVice-President. “The theme from2001” He had that funny

smileonhisface,theonethatmade his eyes seem evencolder.“What I was thinking,

though,” Dan said, “is thatpeoplehaveshortmemories.”That was a piece of politicalwisdom he had picked up,partly because his ownmemorywasn’t sogreat. “Soitmightmakemore sense tohave a ship onMars right inthe middle of the primaries.It’dsurebeahelp tobeable

tomake speeches about that,and—”“Unless something goes

wrong.Thatcouldreallyfuckup thecampaign,abig spacedisaster.”BigJohnfoldedhisarms over his broad chest.“But we’ll just have to seethat doesn’t happen.Besides,that sucker has to be backbefore the primaries.” Hissmilefaded.“See,thethingis—”“On the crew, Dan,” the

President interrupted. “Stillyoung, and you’re in goodshape—thinkit’llwork.”The Vice-President set

down his fork. “What wouldwork?”The former Chief of Staff

unfolded his arms. “ThePresident is saying that he’dlikeyoutogotoMars.”Dan was too stunned to

speak.“Ifyou’llvolunteer,thatis,”

thePresidentsaid.

TheVice-Presidentsteadiedhimself, hoping his eyes hadnot widened into his Bambi-caught-in-the-headlightslook.Big Johnmightbewilling toshove him aboard a shipheading for Mars just to getbackinthegoodgracesoftheWhite House, but thePresident,foraguywithoutawholelotofprinciples,wasagentleman.Amanwhoneverforgot to write thank-younotes wasn’t the kind of

persontoforcehisVeeponariskyspacemission.“Well.”Danfrowned.“DoI

reallyhavetodothis?”Big John said, “It may be

theonlywaywecangetyouelected. It sure as hellwouldgiveyouanedge,andyou’regoing to need one. ThePresidentwas getting it fromthe right,butyou’regoing tobe getting it from themoderate Republicans.” Hesneered. “We’re only talking

a two or three week trip,hardly more than a spaceshuttle flight. Come backfromMars,andyouwouldn’tjust be the Vice-President—you’dbeahero.”Hesaidthewords as if he didn’t quitebelievethem.“Hard to run against a

hero,” the President said. Hepressed his hands together,then flung them out to hissides. “Moderates—trouble.Butit’suptoyou,Dan.Think

you can handle this Marsthing—make sure there’sgoodpeopleonthecrewwithyou—butyougottadecide.”The Vice-President

swallowed, trying for hisRobertStacklookoncemore.Hewasabouttosayhewouldhave to talk it over withMarilyn, butBig Johnwouldgive him one of his funnylooksifhesaidthat.“I’ll consider it very

seriously,”hesaid.IfMarilyn

thoughtthiswasagoodidea,he might have to go alongwithit.“You do that,” the former

ChiefofStaffsaidquietly.

Heexplaineditalltohiswifeafter dinner. There would bethemonths of training, but ahousewould be provided forhim, and the family couldvisit him in Houston. Theycould even move there

temporarily, but Dan wasn’tabout to insist on that. HissonTuckerwasincollege,soit wouldn’t much matter tohimwheretheylived,butthemovemightbedisruptiveforCorinneandBen.“I can see it, in away,”he

said.“If Ido this, Imightbeunbeatable. On the otherhand, it didn’twork for JohnGlenn.”“But this isMars, honey,”

Marilyn said. “John Glenn

didn’t go to Mars.” Shebrushedbackalockofbrownhair, then frowned. Dan hadthe sinking feeling that thiswhole business had alreadybeen decided. Whatever hisfears about the journey, hewasmoreafraidoffacingthePresident and telling him hehaddecidednot tovolunteer.Besides, this space stuffmightfinallyputanendtoallthe mockery. Maybe therewouldn’t be any more jokes

abouthislousygradesandhisgolf trips and being on beerduty during his stint in theNational Guard. Maybe thatbastardGarryTrudeauwouldfinallystopdepictinghimasafeather in his Doonesburycomicstrip.“I’d miss you a lot,”

Marilynsaid.“I’d miss you, too.” He

slipped an arm over hershoulders. “But it isn’t likeit’s going to be one of those

three-year-round-tripdeals.Ifthat’s what it was, I wouldhavesaidnorightonthespot.Theysaiditwouldbesafe.”She restedher head against

hischest. “Nobodycould topthis,youknow.Idoubtyou’dhave any challengers in theprimaries afterwards, and theDemocrats won’t have theeasy time they expectedagainstyou.Eventhen—”He owed it toMarilyn. He

wouldn’t have gotten this far

withouther; in away, itwastoo bad she couldn’t go toMarswith him.She’d had togive up her law practice inIndiana when he was firstelectedtoCongress,andlater,her hopes of finding a jobwhen he was running forVice-President. She hadwised him up after hiselection to the Senate, afterthe story about his colleagueTom Evans and thatParkinson babe broke; if he

hadlistenedtoMarilyninthefirst place, he wouldn’t havebeen in Palm Beach withthem that weekend. She hadgiven him good advice andsacrificedplentyforhim.Theleast he could do was makeherFirstLady.“What should I do?” he

asked.Marilyn drew away from

himandsatup.“There’sonlyone thing to do,” shemurmured. “This is too big

forustodecidebyourselves,sowehavetoputitinGod’shands. He’ll show us what’sright.”Hefoldedhishands,bowed

hishead,andtriedtosummonup a prayer. He definitelyneeded the Lord’s help onthis one, but had the feelingthat God was likely to agreewiththePresident.

WhenDanagreed tobecome

anastronaut, itseemedthatagreat weight was lifted fromhis shoulders. Theannouncement brought theexpected press and televisioncoverage, alongwith varyingreactions from stunnedcommentators, but theconventional wisdom wasthathecouldprobablyhandlehisVice-Presidentialdutiesaswell in Houston or on Marsashecouldanywhereelse.There was a press

conferencetoendurewithhisfour fellow crew members,andtheinterviews,buthegotthrough themallwithoutanymajor gaffes, except forcalling the moons of MarsPhotos and Zenith. Thatsnotty nerd GeorgeWill hadtried to get himon some oldremarks he had made abouttheRedPlanethavingcanals,but Dan had muddied thewaters with a bunch ofmemorized statistics he had

mastered in the years since,along with a comment abouthavingbeenunderthespellofsomeRayBradburystories.Itwassmartofhisstaff tofeedhim that stuff aboutBradbury’s MartianChronicles along with theother information. Dan hadnotonlymadeWill look likea bully, but had also givenviewers the impression thatthe Vice-President actuallyreadbooks.

In Houston, at least, hewould not have to do manyinterviews, on the groundsthat theymightinterferewithhistraining.Thisdidnotkeepsomereportersfromtryingtoget leaked information abouthisprogress.Therewaslittlefor themto

discover. Surprisingly, thetraining was not nearly asrigorous as he had expected.The other American on thecrew, Ashana Washington,

was both a physicist and anexperienced pilot; she wouldtechnicallybeincommandoftheexpedition.PrinceAhmedwasalsoapilot,althoughtheship itself would be pilotedautomatically during thevoyage. Sergei Vavilov andKiichi Taranaga each had astring of degrees in varioussubjects requiring big brains,and since they, like PrinceAhmed,spokefluentEnglish,the Vice-President, to his

greatrelief,wouldnothavetotry to learn a foreignlanguage.Basically, Dan knew, he

would be little more than apassenger.LearningabouttheMarsvesselanditscapacitieswas more interesting thanCabinet meetings, andmessing around with theNASAcomputerswasalittlelikethosevideogameshehadsometimes played withTucker and Ben. The crew

had to be in good shape, buthe had always jogged andplayed a fair amount oftennis. He often missedMarilynandthekids,buttheyhad been apart for extendedperiods during politicalcampaigns in the past, andtheirweekendstogethermorethanmadeupforit.Hedidn’thave to talk to reporters,although occasionally hedidn’t mind posing forphotographers in his NASA

garb with a Robert Redfordgrin on his face. Once aweek, some of his staffersandthePresident’swouldflydowntobriefhimonvariousmatters, but Washingtonoftenseemedfaraway.He had wondered if his

fellow astronauts would taketohim,sincetheywouldhaveto spend at least a couple ofweeksinisolationwithhim—longerifNASAdecidedtheyshould remain in a Martian

basecampforawhile,whichtheymighthavetodoif theyfound anything reallyinteresting. Within threeweeks after his arrival inHouston, however, he wasgolfing twice a week withKiichi, jogging in themorningswithPrinceAhmedafter the Saudi’s morningprayers, and playing tenniswith Sergei,who, despite hissmall size, had one hell of abackhand.

Only Ashana hadintimidated him just a little.The tall, good-looking blackwoman was too damnedbrainy and formal for him toregardherasarealbabe—notthathe,asamarriedmananda future Presidentialcandidate, was inclined todwell on her apparent babequalities anyway. MaybeAshana thought that she wascommanding this expeditionfor the same reasonClarence

Thomaswas on the SupremeCourt. That was anotherreasontokeephisdistance.Itwouldn’thelphischancesforthe White House if Ashanaturned into another AnitaHill.He might have gone on

being distantly polite to herif,amonthandahalfintohistraining, he hadn’t beendrawn into a pick-upbasketballgamewithafewofthe NASA staffers. Ashana

cameby,andbeforeheknewit, she was giving him somegood advice on how toimprovehisjumpshots.Basketballwasthegluethat

sealed their friendship, butDanhadnearlyblownitwhenAshana had come to hishouse one weekend to meethisfamilyandwatchagame.“I should have known,” hesaid as he settled into hischair, “that you’d be a hoopfan.”

Ashana’s face suddenlygotvery stiff.Next toheron thesofa,Marilynwas rollinghereyes and giving him her I-don’t-believe-you-just-said-thatlook.“Exactly why should you

have known?” Ashana askedin a small but kind of scaryvoice.“In your official biography

—I mean, you grew up inIndiana, didn’t you?Everybody’safanthere.”

Ashana relaxed, but hedidn’t quite understand whyshe had laughed so hardafterwards.

He admitted it to himself; ifhehadtobeaherotowintheelection, thiswas theway todoit.Hiscrewmatesweretherealexperts,sohecouldleaveall the major decisions tothem. He would, of course,do his best to be helpful.

Sergei would use him as asubject in some medicalexperiments, and he couldalso help Kiichi sort his soilsamples.Thatwouldbegreat,if they actually found life onMars, even if it was onlysomething like the mildewthat sometimes showedup inthe Vice-Presidentialmansion.People were really getting

psyched about this mission.After all the economic bad

news of recent years, puttingpeople to work on the ship,now called the Edgar RiceBurroughs, and its systems,aswellasexpanding thesizeof theRussianandAmericanspace stations to house thosewho had to work on theBurroughsinorbit,hadgiventhe economy a boost. Part ofthat was the new jobs, butmostofitwassimplythatthecountry was regaining itsconfidence. This Mars thing

would propel him into theWhite House on a wave ofgood feeling, and he wouldleadthecountryintothenextcentury during his secondterm. By then, the economywould be booming alongunder the impetus of arevived space program. Danwasn’t exactly sure how thiswould happen, but would lethis advisors figure that outwhen itwas timefor themtowritehisspeeches.

It was, when he thoughtabout it, amazing that theMars mission had won suchwidespread support. Therewere,ofcourse,somepeoplewho had to bitch, like thoseprotestors who showed up atthe Johnson Space Center orCapeCanaveraltoprotesttheship’s technology, but theywere the kind who panickedwhenever they saw the word“fission,” especially if“fusion”wassittingrightnext

to it. A comedian on DavidLetterman’s show had saidsomething about how adopehead must have thoughtof putting the Vice-Presidentaboard, and so maybe theyshould have called the shipthe William S. Burroughs.Dan didn’t see what was sofunnyaboutthat,butitdidn’treally matter. Most of theclippingsMarilyn brought tohim on her visits hadoptimistic words about the

mission and comments fromvarious people about hisbravery and increasingmaturity.Almost before he knew it,

he and his fellow astronautswere being flown to Florida,wheretheywouldspendtheirfinal days before liftoff; aspace shuttle would carrythem to the Burroughs. ThePresident would be there,along with severalambassadors and any other

dignitarieswhohadmanagedto wangle an invitation. Awhole contingent of familyand friends were coming infrom Indiana to view thelaunch, which would becoveredbycamerateamsandreporters from just abouteverywhere. Everything hadgonebasicallywithoutahitchso far, although they weregoingtobelatetakingoffforthe Burroughs; the shuttlelaunch had been postponed

until October, what with afew small delays onconstructionandtesting.Still,theMarsshipanditssystemshad passed every test withflying colors, and this hadinspired a number of articlescontending, basically, thatAmericanworkershadfinallygotten their shit togetheragain. More kids weredeciding to take science andmathcoursesinschool.Therewas a rumor that Time

magazine had decided earlythat Dan would have to betheirManoftheYear.Only one dark spotmarred

his impending triumph. Thatcreep Garry Trudeau wasnow depicting him as afeatherfloatinginsideaspacehelmetandreferringtohimas“thecandidatefromMars.”

The Burroughs wasn’texactlythekindofsleekship

Danhadseeninmoviesaboutspace. Its frame held twoheavily-shielded habitatmodules, the lander, and theMars base assembly. Thelarge metallic bowl thathoused the pulse engine wasattached to the end of theframe. The whole thingreminded him a little of agiantTootsieRollwith abigdish at one end, but he feltconfident as he floated intothe crew’s quarters through

an open lock. The Presidentand Barbara had wished himwell, and Marilyn and thekids had looked so proud ofhim. If he had known thatbeing courageous was thissimple,maybehewouldhavetrieditsooner.Inside the large barrel of

this habitat, five seats nearwall screens had been boltedto what would be the floorduring acceleration. Hepropelled himself toward a

seat and strapped himself inwithout a qualm. TheBurroughs circled the Earth,then took off like a dream;Dan,pressedagainsthisseat,watched in awe as the globeon the screen shrank to thesizeofamarble.Theshipwouldtakea little

whiletoreachoneg,atwhichpoint the crew could get upand move around. TheBurroughswouldcontinue toaccelerate until they were

halfway to Mars, at whichpoint it would begin todecelerate.Thefastertheshipboosted, the more gravity itwouldhave;at least thatwashow Dan understood thematter. Even though itmighthavebeenkindoffuntofloataroundtheBurroughs,hehadbeen a bit queasy during theshuttleflight,andwasjustashappy that they wouldn’thavetoendureweightlessnessduring the voyage. He had

heard toomany stories aboutspacesicknessandtheeffectsof weightlessness on gas; hedidn’t want to puke and fartallthewaytoMars.Danhadlittletimetoglance

at the viewscreens when hefinallyrosefromhisseat.Theothers were already messingaround with the computersand setting up experimentsandgenerallydoingwhatevertheyweresupposedtodo;hisjob now was to monitor any

transmissionsfromEarth.He sent back greetings,

having rehearsed the wordsduring the last few days. Hedidn’t have anything reallyeloquenttosayaboutactuallybeingoutinspaceatlast,buta lot of astronauts weren’tgreat talkers. When he wasabout to sign off, the NASACapCompatchedhimthroughtoMarilyn.She had cut out James J.

Kilpatrick’s latest column to

read to him. The columnisthad written: “Lloyd Bentsenonce said of the Vice-President, ‘You’re no JackKennedy.’ This has beenverified in a way SenatorBentsen could never havepredicted. This man is noJackKennedy.Instead,hehasdonned the mantle ofColumbusandtheothergreatexplorersofthepast.”That was the kind of thing

that could reallymake a guy

feelgreat.

There was little privacy ontheBurroughs.Whatwiththeshielding, the engine, theMars lander they would usewhen they reached theirdestination, and the basecampassemblythatwouldbesent to theMartian surface ifNASA deemed a longer stayworthwhile, there wasn’texactly an abundance of

space for the crew in thehabitat modules. The nextship,whichwasalreadybeingbuilt, would have theadditional luxuries of arecreational module, alongwith separate sleepingcompartments, but NASAhadcuta fewcornerson thisone.The bathroom, toilet and

showerincluded,wasthesizeof a small closet; their beds,which had to be pulled out

from the walls, were in theadjoining module, with nopartitions. The whole placesmelled like a locker room,maybe because the moduleshad been part of theRussianspace station before beingrecycled for use in thismission.Thefoodtastedevenworse than some of the stuffDan had eaten in the DekehouseatDePauw.But their comfort was not

entirely overlooked; the

Burroughshadasmalllibraryof CDs, videodiscs, andbooks stored on microdot.Within twenty-four hours,Dan andhis companionshadworkedoutaschedulesothateach of them would havesome time alone in the bedcompartmenttoread,listentomusic, or take a nap. Therewas no sense getting on oneanother’s nerves during thevoyage, and some solitudewouldeaseanytensions.

Dan went to the sleepingquartersduringhis scheduledtime on the third day out,meaning to watch one of hisfavorite movies, FerrisBueller’s Day Off. He couldstretchoutononeofthebedsandstillseethescreenonthewall in the back. He noddedoff just as Ferris Bueller,played by MatthewBroderick,wascallinguphisfriendCamerononthephone;hewoke up to the sounds of

“Twist and Shout.” MatthewBroderick was gyrating on afloat in the middle of aChicagoparade.Danhadmissedmostofthe

movie. He must have beenmore tired than he realized,eventhoughhedidn’thaveasmuch todoas the restof thecrew. Sergei had saidsomething about doing somemedical tests on him. Helooked at his watch, set onEastern Standard Time,

which they were keepingaboard ship, and noticed thatit was past 8:00 P.M. Hestared at the screen, notunderstandingwhythemoviewas still on until he realizedthattheplayerhadgonebackto the beginning of the discand started running the filmagain.ItwasAhmed’stimetouse thecompartmentnow,sowhy wasn’t the Prince herebugginghimaboutit?Ontopof that, nobody had come to

gethimfordinner.He sat up slowly. A weird

feelingcameoverhim,alittlelike the nervousness he hadfelt before calling his fatherabout trying to get into theGuard.Hegottohisfeetandclimbed the ladder throughthe passageway thatconnected thismodule to thenext.Thehatchat theendof the

shortpassagewasopenashecameup.Hisshipmateswere

slumpedoverthetablewheretheyusuallyate,theirfacesintheir trays.Dan crept towardthem, wondering if this wassome kind of joke. “Okay,guys,”hesaid,“youcancutitoutnow.”Theywereawfullystill, and Sergei had writtensomething on the table inCyrillic letters with hisfingers and some gravy.“Okay, you faked me out.Come on.” Dan stoppedbehind Kiichi and nudged

him, then saw that theJapanese had stoppedbreathing. Very slowly, hemoved around the table,takingeachperson’spulse inturn. The arms were flaccid,thebodiescold.“Oh, my God,” he said.

“Oh, my God.” He sank tothe floor, covered his facewith his hands, and sat therefor a long time until a voicecalled out to him from thecom.

“Houston to Burroughs.Houston to Burroughs.” Hegot up and stumbled towardthe com. “Come in,Burroughs.”Hesatdownandturnedonthecomscreen.SallieWerfel, theCapCom,

stared out at him from thescreen.“They’re dead,” he blurted

out. “They’re all dead.” Notuntil after he had said it didheremember thatNASAhadplanned a live broadcast for

thatevening.“Oh,myGod.”Sallie gazed back at him

withabig smileonher face;itwould take awhile for hiswords to reach her, sincesignalshadtoworkharder toget through all that space.Then her smile disappeared,and she was suddenlyshouting to somebody elsebefore turning to the screenoncemore.“We’re off the air,” she

said.“Allright,what thehell

doyoumeanabout—”“They’re all dead,” he

replied.“Atthetable.Turnonthe cameras and take a look.Sergei wrote something nextto his tray, but it’s inRussian.”Sallie was whispering to a

man near her. Some moretimepassed.“Allright,Dan,”shesaidveryquietly.“Iwantyou to stay right where youare for the moment. We’vegotthecamerasontheothers

now. You’re absolutely surethey’re,uh,gone.”“Yeah.”Afewmoreminutespassed.

“We’re looking at Sergei’smessage. A couple of ourpeoplehereknowRussian,sowe should have a translationinjustalittlebit.Whilewe’rewaiting, I want to knowexactlywhat youwere doingduringthelastfewhours.”“Not much,” he said. “I

mean, it was my turn for

some private time—we had,like, a schedule for times tobe alone, you know? So Iwent to the other modulethinking I’d catch a movie.”He was about to say he hadbeen watching FerrisBueller’s Day Off, butthought better of it. “What IrememberisthatAshanawason the treadmillworkingout,and Sergei and Ahmed werechecking some numbers orsomething.Kiichiwas in the

can—er, bathroom. I fellasleep, and when I woke upandlookedatthetime,itwaspast dinner.Then I cameoutand—” He swallowed hard.“Oh,myGod.”Hewaited.“Take it easy, Dan,” she

said finally. “We’re openingupa line to theWhiteHouserightnow.”Analien,he thought.Some

creepyblobthing,thekindofcreature they showed in oldsci-fi movies, had somehow

founditswayaboardtheship.He imagined it oozingout tokill his companions duringdinner, then concealing itselfsomewhere aboard theBurroughs to wait for him.Except that it wouldn’t findtoomanyplacesitcouldhideinthecrew’squarters.MaybethealienwasconcealedintheMars lander by now,waitingfor him. He shuddered. Itcouldn’t be an alien. Therewasn’tanywayforonetoget

aboard.“We’ve got a translation,”

Salliewassaying.Danforcedhis attention back to thescreen. “We know whatSergei wrote.” Her eyesglistened; he held his breath.“Not the food. Fever. Feelslikeflu.”“What?”Hewaited.“Flu. Influenza.” She lifted

a hand to her temples. “He’stelling us it wasn’t anythingin the food, that it felt as if

theywerecomingdownwithsomething.”

Everything had happenedawfully fast. The wholebusiness might be some sortof weird assassinationattempt;maybe someone hadfigured out a way to poisonthemainmodule’sairsystem.It was pure chance that hehad not been sitting therewith the others. But why

would anyone want toassassinate him? Only theDemocrats had anything togain from that, and they hadso many loose cannons thatsomebodywouldhaveleakedsuchaplotbynow.He didn’t knowwhether to

berelievedornotwhenSalliecontacted him an hour laterand gave him NASA’shypothesis. They suspectedthat his comrades had beenthe victims of an extremely

virulent but short-lived virus—virulent because the othershad died so quickly, andshort-lived because Dan, inthe same module breathingthe same air, was still alive.They had come up with thisexplanation after consultingwith the Russians, who hadadmitted that milder viruseshad occasionally afflictedtheir cosmonauts.The closedecologies of their moduleshadneverbeenperfect.What

that meant was that thingscould get kind of scuzzy inthere.The next order of business

was todisposeof thebodies.Danputonhis spacesuit andtried not to look at the food-stained faces of his deadcomradesashedraggedthemonebyoneintotheairlock.Theydeservedaprayer.The

only ones he knew wereChristian prayers, but maybeKiichi and Ahmed wouldn’t

mind, and he suspectedSergei was more religiousthan he let on.Hewhisperedthe Lord’s Prayer, and thenanother he had often used atprayer breakfasts. Too late,he realized that aprayer saidat meals might not be themostappropriate thing,giventhathiscompanionshaddiedovertheirchow.He looked up from the

bodiesastheoutsidedoorslidslowly open to reveal the

blackness of space. Hiscomrades deserved a fewmore words before heconsigned them to thedarkness.“You guys,” he whispered,

“you were some of the bestfriends I ever had.Youweredefinitelythesmartest.”It took a while to get the

bodies outside. As hewatched them drift awayfromtheship,tearsrosetohiseyes.Hewas really going to

missthem.

Sallie contactedDan an hourbefore the President was toaddress the nation and theworld. The most importantthing now was for Dan toseem in control of himselfwhenitwastimeforhisownbroadcast. The NASAscientists were fairly certainthat Dan wouldn’t suffer thefate of the others; there was

only a slight chance that themysterious virus wouldreappear to infect him. Hedidn’t find this veryconsoling, since there hadbeen only a slight chance ofsuchathinghappeninginthefirstplace.“Do me a favor, Sallie,”

Dan said. “If I do kick off,don’tletthemediahavetapesof it or anything. I mean, Idon’t want Marilyn and mykids watching that stuff on

CNN or something.” Hewaited. The time for round-trip signals was growinglonger.“Yougotit,Dan-o.”The President made his

announcement,andDanwentonanhour later to show thathewas still able to function.He had no prepared speech,but the most important thingwas to look calm and nothysterical. He succeeded inthat, mostly because he felt

too stunned and empty tocrack up in front of thehundreds of millions whowould be viewing him fromEarth.Salliespoketohimafterhis

appearance. AshanaWashington’s parents andbrother had already retainedcounsel,andtherewastalkofmassive lawsuits. He mighthave known that the lawyerswould get in on thisimmediately.

“The most important thingnow,”Salliesaid,“istobringyouhomeasfastaspossible.You’ll reachyourdestinationfour days from now.” Shenarrowed her eyes. “TheBurroughs is alreadyprogrammed to orbit Marsautomatically, soallwehaveto do is let it swing aroundand head back toEarth.Youcangetbackin—”“I’mnotgoingtoland?”he

asked, and waited even

longer.Salliesatup.“Land?”“I want to land, Sallie.

Don’tyouunderstand?Ihaveto now. The others wouldhave expected me to—I’vegot to do it for them.” Hesearched for another phrase.“It means they won’t havediedinvain.Icandoit—youcanprogramthelander,andIcan go down to the surface.Maybe I can’t do theexperiments and stuff they

were going to, but I can setup the cameras and bringbacksoilsamples.Itwouldn’tberightnottotry.AndifI’mgoing to die, Imight aswelldiedoingsomething.”Hewaited for hiswords to

reach her. “Dan,” she said atlast,“yousurpriseme.”It would probably surprise

the hell out of the President,too.“I’vegottodoit,Sallie.”He frowned, struggling withtheeffortofall this thinking.

“Look, if I land, it’ll inspiretheworldtobiggerandbetterspacetriumphs.We’llgetthatbiggerspacestationbuiltandthemoreadvancedships,too.Butifyoujustbringmeback,allthenutswillstartwhiningagain about what a waste allthiswasandhowfourpeoplediedfornothing.”Hewaited.“I’ll do what I can, Dan.”

She shookher head. “I don’thavemuch to say about this,butIcanspeakupforyou.In

theend,though,it’sprobablygoing to be up to thePresident.”“Then put me through to

himnow.”He hashed it out with the

President in the slowmotionofradiodelay,listenedtotheobjections, and replied byinvoking the memory of hisdead comrades. When thePresident, looking tense andeven more hyper than usual,signedoffbysayinghewould

have to consult with hisadvisors,Danwas certain hehadwon.He felt no surprisewhen word came twelvehours later that he would beallowed to undertake thelanding.After all, if the President

didn’t let him go ahead, itwas like admitting publiclythat he had put anincompetentwithoutadequatetraining aboard theBurroughs. The President,

having finally salvaged hisplaceinhistory,wasn’taboutto go down in the recordbooksasadoofus.

David Bowie was singingaboutMajorTomandGroundControl. Kiichi had been aDavidBowie fan, so a lot ofBowie’s music, everythingfromhisZiggyStardustphaseupthroughTinMachine,wasin the Burroughs’s music

collection. Dan had neverbeen intoDavidBowie,whostruck him as being kind offruity,butnowhefeltasifheunderstood this particularsong.Sometimes,duringhiswork

with the President’s CouncilonSpace,Danhadwonderedwhy some early astronautshadgottenkindofflakyafterreturning to Earth. Thesewere macho test pilot guys,not the kind of men anyone

would expect to getmysticalor weirded out. But as hemovedaroundtheship,whichwas usually silent except forthelowthrobbinghumoftheengine and an occasionalbeep from the consoles, hewas beginning to feel a bitodd himself, as if his mindhad somehowmoved outsideofhisbody.He had never thought all

thatmuchaboutGod.Hehad,ofcourse,neverdoubted that

God was out there goingabout His business; he hadsimply never thought aboutthe Lord that much, exceptwhen he was in church orsayingaprayer.Whenhewasaboy,hehadimaginedaGodsomething like hisgrandfatherPulliam,anangryold man ready to smite allthose liberal Democrats,Communists,andotherforcesof darkness. Later on, whenhe was older and more

mature, God had seemedmorelikeasortofbasketballcoachorgolfpro.Now,whenhegazedat the

imageofMarsonhis screen,a rust-red dot surrounded byblackness, he had thestrangest feeling that he hadnever really understood theLord at all. God had createdall this, the planets and thespace between them and thestarsthatweresofarawayhecould not even comprehend

the distance. God, in someways, was a lot like theNASA computers, but therewas even more to Him thanthat. Dan wasn’t quite surehowtoput it; thingslike thatwere hard to explain. Hesupposed that was what itmeanttobemystical—havingweird feelings you couldn’tquite put into words. Andfaith was believing what noone in his right mind wouldbelieve even though it was

true.NASA kept him busy

during his waking hoursprogrammingtheMarslanderandcheckingout itssystems.After supper, he usuallyworked on his speech, withsomesuggestionsNASAwaspassing along from hisspeechwriters. They hadgiven him another speechearlier, but he couldn’t usethatonenow.Withwhathadhappened, this one would

havetobereallyinspiring.Yethestillhadhismoments

ofsolitude,thetimeswhenhefelt, for the first time in hislife, what it was like to beutterly alone. He couldn’tactually be alone, hesupposed, since God had tobesomewhereinthevicinity,but therewere timeswhen itseemed that the emptiness ofspacehadseepedintohim.

Marsswelleduntilitfilledthescreen,andthenhisshipwasfalling around the planet.There was no way to avoidweightlessness now; theBurroughs had begun todecelerate after the halfwaypoint of the journey, and itsenginehadfinallyshutdown.Danputonhis spacesuit andfloated through the tunnelthat connected the crew’squarters with the moduleholding the base assembly.

He wouldn’t be setting up aMars base, though, sinceNASA didn’t want himfoolingarounddownthereforverylong.Heenteredthelastmodule, which held thelander.Hepressedhishandagainst

thelander’sdoor;itslidopen.The lander had food, a smalllavatory, and equipment forexperiments.Therewas evenaMarsroveronboardsothathe could ride around on the

surface. He wouldn’t bedoing much, though, exceptfor shooting a bunchof stuffwith the cameras andgathering soil samples. Theimportant thing was to land,makehisspeech,messaroundfor a littlewhile, catch someshut-eye,andthengetbacktotheBurroughs.He strapped himself into

one of the chairs. The fouremptyseatsmadehimfeelasif the ghosts of the others

were with him. NASA hadallowed each of theastronauts to bring along asmall personal possession totake down to the Martiansurface, and Dan had hiscompanions’ choices withhiminthelander.Ahmedhadbrought a Koran, Kiichi avintage Louisville Sluggerwith Joe DiMaggio’ssignature engraved on it,Sergeia setofRussiandolls,and Ashana a pair of Nikes

personally autographed byMichael Jordan.A lump roseinhisthroat.The doors to the outside

wereopening;hetensed.ThePresident had spoken to himjust a couple of hours ago,telling him that everyone inthe world would be waitingforhisfirsttransmissionfromthe surface. In spite of thetragedy, Dan’s determinationto carry out the landing hadinspired everybody in the

country.Havingcomesofar,humankind would not bediscouraged by this setback;theVice-Presidenthadshownthe way. Construction of thenext shipwasmoving along;it would probably bespaceworthybyspring,andafollow-up Mars missionwould give an even biggerboost toDan’scandidacy.Atthispoint,hewouldprobablycarry all the states, and evenD.C.,inthegeneralelection.

“Asteroids,” the Presidenthad said. “Lotta resourcesthere. Just get one of thosethings in Earth orbit, wherewecango into,uh, aminingmode, and supply-sideeconomics canwork.” Itwasnice for Dan to think that,when he finally becamePresident, things might bemoving along so well thathe’d have plenty of time forgolf, the way Eisenhowerhad.

The lander glided forwardtowardthenewworldbelow.

Mars filled his screen. Dan,pressed against his seat,braced himself. He hadknown what to expect; histraining had includedmaneuvers with a model oftheMarsroverinareasmuchlike theMartian surface.Yetactuallyseeingitthiscloseupstill awed him. It looked, he

thought, likethebiggestsandtrapintheuniverse.His chair trembled under

himashelanded.Danwaited,wanting to make sureeverything was all rightbefore he got up. Time tocontact Earth, but in theexcitement of actually beingon Mars, he had forgottenwhathewassupposedtosay.He cleared his throat.

“Guys,”hesaid,“I’mdown.”Thatoughttodothejob.

Over four minutes passedbeforeheheardwhatsoundedlike cheers at the other end.Salliewas saying something,buthe couldn’tmakeout thewords. By then, he wasrummaging through thecompartmentsofhisspacesuitlookingforthecardsthatheldhisspeech.“—all ecstatic,” Sallie’s

voice said. “Congratulations,and God bless you—youdon’tknowhowmuch—”

He sighed, realizing at lastthat he had forgotten thecards.Hemight have knownthat, during the mostimportantmomentofhislife,hewouldhavetoadlib.

Dan waited in the smallairlock until the door slidopen. Above him was thepinkish-red sky of an alienworld. A rust-colored barrenlandscape stretched to the

horizon, which, he noticed,seemed closer than it shouldbe, then remembered thatMarswassmaller thanEarth.Hefeltalotlighter,too,sinceMars, being a smaller place,didn’thaveasmuchgravity.Hemadehiswaydownthe

ladder to the surface, theninhaled slowly. “Whoa,” hesaid aloud, overcome withawe at the immensity of thisaccomplishment and sorrowthathisdeadcomradescould

not share the moment withhim. “Jeez.” He pressed hislips together, suddenlyrealizing that history wouldrecord man’s first words onthe surface of Mars as“Whoa”and“Jeez.”“Well, here I am,” he said,

knowing he would have towing it. “I almost can’tbelieve I’m here. Man, ifanybodyhad toldmewhen IwasakidthatI’dgotoMars,I would have thought—” He

paused. “Anyway, the thingis,Iwishtheotherswereherewithme, because they’re theones who really deserved tomake this trip.What I meanis, I’m really going to missthem, but I can tell you allI’m not ever going to forgetthem. It’s why I’m here,because of them. In otherwords, I figured I had tocomedownandstandhereforthem.” He remembered thathewas supposed toplant the

United Nations flag aboutnow, and took the pole outfrom under his arm. “Nowwe’llgoforward.”Thewordshehadplanned to say at thispoint were something likethat. “And someday, otherpeople will come here andturn into Martians.” Danclearedhisthroat.“GuessI’llshow you around a littlenow.” He scanned thelandscapewithacamera,thenwent back to the lander. By

then, thePresident hadgivenhim his congratulations, andMarilynhadgottenontotalkto him after that. He washappy to hear his wife’svoice,eventhough,whatwithhaving towaita fewminutesuntilsheheardhimandcouldreply, it wasn’t actuallypossible to have what hewould call a realconversation. This far fromEarth,thesignalshadtoworkevenhardertoreachhim.

Theroverhadbeenloweredfrom another side of thelander on a platform. Sinceabout all he could do wastake pictures and gather soilsamples, NASA wanted himtodrivearoundandtakethemin different places. Theydidn’twanthimtogotoofarortakeanyunnecessaryrisks,and maybe, now that he’dgiven a speech of sorts, hecould let the images of theMartian surface speak for

themselves.Herodearound,carefulnot

to drive too fast since therewere some nasty-lookingrocks and rims of smallcraters nearby, until theorange sky grew darker. Bythe time he got back to thelander with his samples, theskywasnearlyblackand thesun a bright swirl on thehorizon.I actually got here, he

thought,thenrememberedthe

otherswithapang.

He sleptwell, then got up tosay his farewells to the RedPlanet—although RustyPlanetmightbeabetternamefor it. Another ride, somemore pictures and samples,and he was ready to go. Hehoped the NASA scientistsweren’t toounhappywithhisanswers to their questionsaboutwhatunusual thingshe

might have observed. Hell,everything seemed prettyunusual here, when hestoppedtothinkaboutit.He went inside, then

strappedin.“Readytogo,”hesaid.Therewerejustacoupleofbuttonstopush,andhehadpracticedalotduringthelastdaysaboardtheBurroughstobe sure he didn’t make amistake. He pressed one,waitedfor it to lightup, thenhit the next. For a few

moments, he wondered whyhe couldn’t feel the landertaking off, then realized thatitwasn’tmoving.“Uh,Mars toHouston,” he

said, then waited until heheard Sallie’s voice respond.“Ihatetosaythis,butI’mnotgoinganywhere.Should Ihitthose whosits again, orwhat?”Nearlytenminuteslater,he

heardSallie’s reply.Her firstwordwas,“Shit.”

Nomatterhowmanytimesheactivated the controls,nothing happened. MissionControl had various theoriesabout what might be wrong,none of which were doinghim any good. Gradually itdawnedonhimthathemightbe stranded. Twenty-fourhours after he reached thatconclusion, Sallie confirmedit. They could not pinpoint

the problem at that distance.Theydidnotwanttotakeanyriskswiththelander.Hewasremindedofwhichbuttonstopush in order to bring downtheMarsbaseassembly.It could have been worse,

he told himself. There wereenough provisions in thelanderalonetolasthimmorethan a month, since hiscompanions weren’t there tosharethem.Withthesuppliesthe base assembly had, he

could survive until a rescuemissionarrived.There would be such a

mission. The Presidentassured him of that, as didSallie.Anothershipwouldbeon its way to him within afew months. The wonderfulthing was that his mission,despitethetragedy,wasinitsownwayasuccess,evenifhewasn’t in thebestposition toappreciate that fact. A manhadmade it toMarsandwas

now on its surface, and thefate of his fellow astronautshad only temporarilystemmed the rising tide ofoptimism and hope.Humankind would return totheMoonandreachouttotheother planets. Dan, who hadinsistedonlandinginsteadofturning back, would beremembered by futuregenerations of spaceexplorers.How his present

predicament might affect theelections was not discussed.The President had saidsomething vague aboutgettinghimbackthereintimefor the convention.Now thatDanwasatruehero,itdidn’tlookasthoughtherewouldbeany opposition in theRepublican primariesanyway.Dan tried to feel comforted

bythis,butthecampaign,andeverything else, seemed

awfullyfaraway.

Adistantobjectshapedlikeashuttlecock dropped towardthecrateredplain.Itsenginesfired; the object landed twokilometersaway.Dansighedwithreliefatthe

sight of the base assembly.He had been worrying thatsomethingmightgowrongatthis point; one disadvantageof being a hero was that

sometimes it required you tobe dead. Now he would besafe, and could keep busymaking observations,watching movies, workingout, and in general keepinghimself together until therescuemissionarrived.Itwassort of depressing to knowhe’d miss Thanksgiving andChristmas, althoughfortunately there were someturkey dinners among theprovisions, and Mission

Controlhadpromised tosingcarolsforhim.He climbed into the rover

andstartedtowardthebarrelsof the base assembly; he’dcheck it out first, then comeback another time to load upon whatever he might needfromthelander.Hisstaffhadpromised to transmit the textfortheofficialannouncementof his candidacy in a fewdays, and he supposed theywould want him to make

some speeches from Marslater, during the primaries.Maybe being on Mars,whatever the disadvantages,was better than having totrudge through NewHampshire.

Hehadtoadmitit;lifeinthesomewhat more spaciousquarters of the Mars basewasn’ttoobadinsomeways.He was getting used to the

desolate orange landscapeand the way the sun set sosuddenly.Thereweremoviesand records enough to keephim occupied, although hewas beginning to see thatthere were limits to howmany times he could watchsome movies, even ones asgreatasFerrisBueller’sDayOff.But there were times when

thesolitude,evenwithallthemessagesNASAwasrelaying

fromEarth,reallygottohim.There wasn’t a whole lot aguycoulddoallalone,exceptfor stuff it was better not tothinkabouttoomuch.Hehadspoken to Marilyn and thekids a couple of times, buthavingtospeakandthenwaitlongminutesfortheresponsemade him realize how far hewas from everything heknew.Maybe things would pick

upwhenhereallygotintohis

campaign. There was plentyhe could do, even out here.Hisstaffwasalreadytryingtoset him up for a Nightlineappearance, which wouldprobablyhave tobe taped sothat the delay between TedKoppel’s questions and hisanswerscouldbedeleted.Hisstaff should be transmittingthe text for the officialannouncement of hiscandidacyanydaynow.Danhadfinishedstruggling

into his spacesuit and wasabout to put on his helmetwhenthecomstartedbeepingat him. Maybe hisspeechwriters had finallygotten their act together. Hesat down and turned on thescreen.The President’s face stared

out at him. “Uh, hello, Mr.President,” Dan said. “I wasjustabouttotakeadriveoverto the lander—there’s somestuffIwanttomovehere.”

“I don’t know how to tellyou this,Dan,” the Presidentsaid. “Something’s gone,well, a bit awry.Might haveknown the Democrats wouldthink of some devious—see,we’re going to have topostpone your announcementforawhile.”“Butwhy?”He waited a long time for

the President’s answer. “TheDemocrats—they’re sayingyou have to be on Earth to

make your announcement.Somebody found someloophole or other in the law,and they’re arguing that youcan’t declare and run forPresident while you’re onMars. Got our guys workingon it—think they can beatthose bastards in court—butbythetimetheydo,itmaybetoolatetofileandgetyouonprimary ballots. Could try toget write-ins, but the rulesare, uh, different in every

state.”Dan tried to recall if there

wassomethinginthelawtheDemocratscouldusetopullastunt like this. He couldn’tthinkofanything,butthenhehadn’t been exactly thebiggest brain in law school.Maybe the Democrats woulddragoutJohnGlenn,howeverold hewas, to run this time.They’d probably useAshana’s family in thecampaign, too; they had

plenty of reason to be pissedoffattheAdministration.“You said I could get back

by the convention,” Danmurmured. “I mean, aren’tthe delegates free to switchtheirvotesiftheywant?”Theminutespassed. “Well,

you’re right on the moneythere, andnoquestion they’dturn to you, but—see,NASA’s got sort of a littleproblem with the new ship.Nothing for you to worry

about, just some bittytechnical thing they candefinitelyironout,butthey’recertain they can have youbackherenextfall.”Dan was beginning to see

more problems. TheDemocrats might use hispredicament against theRepublicans.Theywouldsayhewouldn’tbestrandedthereif the Administration hadthought more about realscienceandspaceexploration

and less about politics andpublicitystunts,iftheyhadn’tbeen rushing to put him onanother planet. He wouldn’tbe on the campaign trail toinspire people and to invokethenamesofhiscomrades;hewouldbeonlyadistantvoiceandgrainy imagefromMars.The whole business mightturn intoasbigabummerastheendoftheGulfWar.“Whatarewegoingtodo?”

Danasked.

WhenthePresidentreplied,hesaid,“Well, there’sa lottasentiment here to makeMarilynourcandidate.”That figured. The idea was

so perfect that Dan wassurprisedhehadn’tthoughtofit himself. The Democratswould look mean-spiritedslingingmudatahero’swife,one waiting and praying forherhusbandtoreturnsafely.“All I can say,” Dan said

quietly, “is that she has my

fullsupport.”

Dan finished loading therover, climbed in and droveslowly toward the scatteredTootsieRollsofhisbase.HehadnothadtotalktoMarilynvery long to convince her torun; in fact, he had expectedhertoobjectalotmoretotheidea. She would make aprettygoodpresident, though—maybeabetteronethanhe

wouldhavebeen.He had packed up the

personal items of hiscomrades—Ashana’s Nikes,Ahmed’sKoran,Kiichi’sbat,and Sergei’s dolls—feelingthat he wanted his deadfriends’ things with him. Hehadalsobroughthisgolfballsand his favorite wood. Theclub,whichhadapersimmonhead, had cost him a prettypenny, but he liked a driverwithasolidhardwoodhead.

Aninspirationcametohim.Hestoppedtherover,climbeddown, then took out one ofhis balls and the wood.Stepping over a small crater,he set down the ball, thengrippedhisclub.Gettinginasmooth swing was going tobe rough with his spacesuiton, but he thought he couldmanage it. Alan Shepardmight be the first guy to teeoff on the Moon, but Danwouldbethefirsttodosoon

anotherplanet.He swung his club and

knew the head’s sweet spothad met the ball. The smallwhite orb arched above theorangecrateredlandscapeandsoaredtowardthedistantpinksky.

Afterwordto“DannyGoes

toMars”:In the spring of 2000, PBStelevisedahistoryoftheU.S.Presidential debates. AmongthoseinterviewedwasformerVice-President Dan Quayle,who to my surprise cameacross as dignified, mature,andarticulate.Bythen,Iwasalreadywondering if Imighthave done Mr. Quayle an

injustice in “Danny Goes toMars.”Itisofcourseeasiertothink kindly of those whowould rule us when they aresafely(oratleasttemporarily)outofpower,butthetouchesof gray in Quayle’s hair andthelinesaginghadbroughttohis face made him lookalmost distinguished, incontrast to his earlier morecallow appearance.Whateverhis mental lacks, one couldseehimat least struggling to

think things through andcome to someunderstanding,in contrast to the incurioustabula rasa currentlyoccupying the White House.Compared to George WBush, a man whom eventshave now placed on thesteepest of learning curves,Dan Quayle counts as anintellectual.Inthespringof1995,Iwas

invited to give a reading of“Danny Goes to Mars” at a

poetry slam in a local bar.While performing, I quicklybecame aware that some ofmypunchlinesweren’tgoingover that well, that some ofthe references puzzled theaudience; it’spossible that atleastafewofthemhadonlyavague idea of who DanQuaylewas.Alternatehistorystories, and especiallysatirical ones set in thepresentornearpast featuringcurrent figures, are probably

destined to accumulateannotations in any futurepublished editions, to remindthosewhoonceknewofwhatthey have forgotten, and tofillineveryoneelse—thevastmajority, probably—ondetailstheywereneverawareofinthefirstplace.Forthebenefitofthosewho

lack my own obsessive andoften nitpicky interest inAmericanpoliticalminutiae,Ioffer the following

annotationstothisstory:JohnSununu, chief of staff

for President George H. WBush, was notable for hisabrasive personality, andwidely criticized for usinggovernment limousines andmilitary aircraft to runpersonal errands, lapses thatledtohisresignation.Hewasa former Governor of NewHampshire and a graduate oftheMassachusettsInstituteofTechnology.

Marilyn Tucker Quayle,whose parents were bothphysicians, came from afamily even more ferventlyright-wing than herhusband’s. The Quayles metin law school at IndianaUniversity, and Marilynpracticedlawduringtheearlyyearsof theirmarriage.Theyare the parents of threechildren: Corinne, Tucker,andBen.Tom Evans and Paula

Parkinson were principalplayers in a political scandalthat might have nipped DanQuayle’s political career inthebud.JustafterhiselectiontotheSenate(hehadbeenintheHouse ofRepresentativesbefore that), Quayle, againsthiswife’sadvice,wentofftoFlorida with CongressmanTom Evans and a few otherCongressional buddies forwhat was reputed to be aweekend of golf. Paula

Parkinson,anattractiveblondlobbyist, turned up at thePalm Beach cottage the menhad rented and remainedthere for the duration.Whenthestoryofthissojournbrokein 1981, it turned out thatTomEvanshadbeensleepingwith Ms. Parkinson. Heapologized for his conductpublicly, but his politicalcareer was destroyed, alongwith that of Tom Railsback,another Congressman at the

cottage that weekend whohad reputedly dallied withPaulaParkinson.DanQuayle,however, escaped seriousdamage, basically by playingdumb and letting the stormblow over. Marilyn Quaylestoutlydefendedherhusband,saying, “Anyone who knowsDan Quayle knows that hewould rather play golf thanhave sex any day.” PaulaParkinson later made use ofher babe qualities by posing

nudeforPlayboyMagazine.The “Deke house at

DePauw” is theDeltaKappaEpsilon fraternity house atDePauw University, whereDanQuayle went to college,and this fraternity had thereputationofbeingsomethingof an animal house. DanQuayle’s grandfather, father,mother, and uncle had allattended DePauw, auniversity that, even duringthe 1960s, was almost

untouched by the anti-VietnamWarmovement andthe radical politics of otheruniversities. In later years,when then-CongressmanDanQuayle was invited to speakataDePauwcommencement,the faculty revolted whenasked to approve grantinghimanhonorarydoctorate,onthegroundsthatQuaylewasatotal mediocrity. The degreewas given to him anyway,presumably because there

would have been nocommencement speakerotherwise.“Ferris Bueller’sDayOff,”

a 1986 movie (directed byJohn Hughes and starringMatthew Broderick) about asmartass high school studentwho has truancy down to ascience,was citedbyQuayleas a favorite film; somethingin this story of a creativelysubversive kid clearly spoketo him. Another movie that

made a powerful impressiononQuayle,who saw itwhilehe was in law school, was“The Candidate” (1972), inwhich Robert Redford playsan up-and-coming politicianrunning for the Senate.Gradually this idealisticcharacter,withthehelpofhisadvisors,realizesthatnothinghe says or believes matters,that the skillful use oftelevisionandvisualsymbolsis what will elect him. He

wins the election, but at thecostofgivingupnearlyallofhis principles. What did theyoungQuaylelearnfromthismotionpicture?According toa law school classmate whosaw “The Candidate” withhim, Quayle was mightilyimpressed by the technicalexpertise of the politicalpackagers and advisorsdepicted in the somewhatsatirical movie, and spenthours analyzing their

techniques.Marilyn and Dan Quayle

now live in Arizona, whereshe practices law and hepracticeshisgolf.

HILLARYORBITS

VENUS“In 1963 … fifteen-year-oldHillary [Rodham] wrote toNASA, asking what subjectsto study to prepare forbecoming an astronaut.NASA wrote back that nofemalesneedapply.”

—ShanaAlexander,“TheDifficultiesofBeingHillary,”

Playboy,January1994

Astheship’senginesreachedpeak acceleration and settledinto a steady backgrounddrone, mission specialistHillary Rodham sat back inher chair and thought abouthowherlifemighthavebeendifferent. It was a commonhumantendency,shethought,toreflectonone’slifeaboardtrains,planes,buses,andevenduring an interplanetaryvoyage aboard the

Sacajawea, now bound forVenus.The turning point for her,

Hillary supposed, had beenthe letter she had receivedfrom a minor NASAfunctionary during hersophomore year at MaineEast High School. She hadwritten to ask howa hopefulhighschoolstudentshouldgoaboutpreparingtobecomeanastronaut.Theresponsetoherearnest inquiry had fired her

imagination and given her amission—totravelintospace,to set foot on the Moon,maybe even explore Mars.Thetechnologythathadbuiltthe Sacajawea and thefission-to-fusion engine thatpoweredher,oneofthemorerecent of the technologicalbreakthroughs that had comealong in such rapidsuccession after the firstMoonlanding,hadfinallyputthose early ambitions within

herreach.For now, she could take

great pride in being amongthefirstcrewofastronautstotravel to Venus. Theywouldnot, of course, actually landon thathellishplanetwith itsatmosphereofcarbondioxideandasurfacetemperaturehotenoughtomelt lead.Sheandthe other three members ofthecrewwouldhavetosettlefororbiting theveiledplanet,doing radar mapping of the

surface, and sending downtwo probes. The probes anddetailed radar maps wouldcontribute to theirknowledgeof Earth’s sister planet, butthe primary purpose of themission was to test theSacajawea on aninterplanetaryvoyage.If not for L. Bruce

Thomerson, an assistant to adeputy director of publicrelations for the NationalAeronautics and Space

Administration,Hillarymightnot have been aboard thisspacecraft. Another careermight have claimed her—medicine, perhaps, or evenlaw. Or, despite the urgingsof amother who had alwaysencouraged her daughter notto limit her ambitions, shemight have settled for themore conventional life of asuburban housewife in aplace much like Park Ridge,Illinois, the Chicago suburb

where she and her brothershadgrownup.ButL.BruceThomerson—

seizedeitherbysympathyforher dream or perhapsmerelytired of having to discourageyet another idealistic younggirl—had deflected her fromsuch possibilities with histyped postscript to the formletterthathadtoldherNASAwas not interested in anyfemale astronauts. “Nofemales need apply to the

astronaut training programnow,” Thomerson had addedto the letter, “but that couldchangeinyears tocome,andthere are some signs withinthe Agency that it may. Myadviceistoworkhardatyourhighschoolmathandsciencecourses and prepare yourselffor college work in thosesubjects. Keep yourselfphysically fit. Considergraduateschooloracareerinone of the military services.

Make yourself a credit toyour family and community,and you might become justthe kind of young womanNASAwould proudly acceptas one of our astronautssomeday.”There had been detours

along theroad thathad takenher to Houston and theJohnsonSpaceCenter and toCape Canaveral, but Hillaryhad kept her goal in sight,determined to be among the

corpsofmenandwomenwhowouldreachforthestars.Hermarriage had been one suchdetour—or so it had seemedforawhile.Shehadpromisedherself never to completelysurrender her own name andidentity,toloseherlifetoherhusband’scareer,yetshehadcome perilously close todoingthat.Therehadbeenalltheusual

justifications. Marriage, afterall, meant compromising,

even when it often seemedthat it was the woman whohad to make most of thecompromises. Nurturing herhusband, advancing hisinterests, and encouraginghiminhisworkwereworthafew sacrifices. Even at theworst times, she had always,partly for their daughter’ssake, rejected the option ofdivorce. And the mostimportant reason for stayingwith him, for sometimes

looking the other way evenwhen his lapses had hurt her—shelovedhim.Throughoutall the arguments, thedemands of his work andhers, the flings with otherwomen that he had notentirely given up even afterthey were married, she hadcontinued to love him. Shehad stuck it out, stayed thecourse,andagainHillarywasgrateful that she had, eventhough it had meant

postponing her own dreamfor a while. The time hadcome when he had neededher,badly.Now, aboard the

Sacajawea, she wondered if,despite her ownaccomplishments, herhusband’s reflected glorymight have tipped the scalesofNASAinherfavor.Hillarythought of the last pressconference she and hercrewmates had endured

before the flight; at least athirdofthequestionsdirectedto her had been about herhusband. Even knowing thather qualifications were theequal of any astronaut’s, andsuperior to many, she stillfeared that shemight alwaysremaininhisshadow.Foolish, she thought, to

thinkthatway.Shehadneverbeen one for self-pity, evenduring the worst times. Shewouldcertainlynotindulgein

self-doubt while on themostimportantjourneyofherlife.

That the Sacajawea wasgoingtoVenus,ratherthantoMars,wasthereasonallfourof the astronauts aboard herwerewomen.The exigenciesof politics and publicrelations had given Hillaryand her crewmates thismission, since it had seemedappropriate that the first

human beings to travel toVenus—to orbit Venus, atany rate—be female. Theywouldnotbethefirstcrewtotest the fission-fusion pulseengine that powered theSacajawea;anearlierversionof this ship, the Selene, hadgonetotheMoonandbackintwo days almost a year ago,in 1997. But NASA’s firstall-female space crew hadguaranteed even more mediacoverageofthismissionthan

ofthepulseengine’sfirsttest.“Peak acceleration

achieved,” LieutenantColonelEvelynHolder,pilot,Air Force Academy alumna,and commander of thismission, murmured atHillary’s left. Evelyn ran ahandthroughhershortbrownhair and leaned back in herchair. “This baby’s going toprettymuch run herself fromnowon.”“Never thought I’d see the

day,”JudithResniksaidfrombehind Evelyn, “when wecould get to Venus in lessthan three weeks.” Judy, anelectrical engineer bytraining, was a slenderwoman near Hillary’s agewith a cloud of thick darkhair.“Never thought I’d see the

day,”Victoria Chomuttered,“when I’d be on Oprah andget a photo shoot in VanityFair.” Victoria was a

geologist—or maybe“aphroditologist” was themoreappropriatetermforherprofession during the courseofthismission.“Letterman,” Judy said.

“That had to be the worst,doingLetterman.”Hillarywasn’tsosureabout

that. Exchanging sarcasticripostes with DavidLetterman, schmoozing withJay Leno, Rosie O’DonnellandBarbaraWalters,fielding

questions from Ted KoppelandSamDonaldsonon“ThisWeekwithDianeSawyer”—none of that had especiallybothered her. It was theintrusiveness of many in themedia, their refusal toacknowledgethatsheandhercrewmates had any rights toprivacy. During the weeksbefore the mission, wheninterestintheSacajaweaandher crew was building to afeverpitch,cameracrewsand

reporters had been campingin front of her house inHouston at all hours. Worsestill were the newspaper andmagazine articles that, toHillary’s mind anyway,bordered on tabloidjournalism. The journalistshad ferreted out everypersonal gossipy detail aboutherlifetheycouldfind—howshe had met her husband,womenwho claimed to havehad affairs with him during

the Seventies, her spiritualbeliefs—nothing seemed tobe off limits. Even Hillary’sdaughter, who had donenothing to deserve suchintrusiveness other than tohavetheparentsshedid,wasnot spared garbled reportsaboutherlovelifeandpartiesshe had attended on campusand fellow students she hadallegedlydated.Someofthequestionsasked

of Hillary were, she felt

strongly, questions no oneshould have to answer. Shehad fielded most of them,evaded the most intrusiveinquiries, and consoledherself with the thought thatshe had fulfilled herresponsibilities to NASA’spublicrelationsstaff.“Could be worse,” Jerrie

Cobbhadtoldher.Jerrie, thefirst American woman inspace and the firstwoman togo to the Moon, was old

enough to remember whenthings had been worse.“Could be a lot worse ifnobodycaredaboutthespaceprogram. We’d have all theprivacywewantedthen.”Hillary could not imagine

people being bored by orindifferent to the spaceprogram. Her dream mighthave begun as a teenagedgirl’s fantasy, but it hadgrown into something muchlarger than herself,

humankind’sgreatestventure,something that would helpmaketheworldabetterplace.“We are not interested insocial reconstruction,” shehad said in 1969, as the firststudent to speak at aWellesley Collegecommencement, “it’s humanreconstruction … If theexperiment in human livingdoesn’twork in this country,in this age, it’s not going toworkanywhere.”

That experiment had beenworking in recent years, notleast because of the spaceprogram. That, along withending the war in Vietnam,had been part of PresidentHubert Humphrey’s legacy;beingoutfromunderLyndonJohnson’s shadow hadimbued the former vice-presidentwithaboldnessfewhad believed he possessed.By the timeNeilArmstrong,Buzz Aldrin, and Michael

Collinswere on theirway totheMooninJulyof1969,thesummer after Hillary’sgraduation from Wellesley,the safe withdrawal ofAmerican troops fromVietnam was proceedingrapidly, Secretary of StateEugene McCarthy wasissuing optimisticannouncements about theprogress of peace talksseveraltimesaweek,SenatorEdwardM.Kennedy had cut

short his Massachusettsvacation to migrate betweenPalm Beach, Florida and theKennedy Space Centermaking political hay byreminding people of hisbrother John F. Kennedy’spromise to send men to theMoon, and NASA hadannounced successfulexperiments on an ion driveand plans for buildingreusable shuttlecraft and apermanent space station in

Earthorbit.Hillary’syounglife,marred

by assassinations, violence,an unpopular war, and theincreasinganimositybetweenhergenerationandthatofherparents, had suddenly lookedbrighter.Inthewaveofgoodfeeling induced by SecretaryMcCarthy’s diplomaticsuccesses and the Apollo 11Moon landing, people againlookedahead.Therewaseventalk that NASA was at long

last seriously considering therecruitment of femaleastronauts. The summer of1969 had evoked in Hillarythe strange and eerie feelingthat a bleak future hadsomehow been averted, thatshe and her fellow citizenswere at last moving awayfrom the darkness that hadthreatened to overwhelmthem toward the light at theendofthetunnel.

A year onVenus, the time ittooktheveiledplanettomakeone revolution around thesun, was 224.7 Earth days.The time it took Venus torotate once on its axis was243Earthdays,meaning thattheperiodof its rotationwaslongerthanaVenusianyear.“Aseriouslyweirdcycle, if

you ask me,” Victoria Chosaid.“Let’sfaceit,thewholedamned planet has a major

case of PMS.” The geologisthadapparendyheardmostofthe one-liners about Venus.Thatmuchof thehumorwassexist didn’t surpriseHillary;NASA had remained a malebastion well into theSeventies. Jerrie Cobb andthe first group of women totrain as astronauts had notbeen recruited until early1977, after President JohnGlenn’s inauguration, wheneven the most misogynistic

guys in NASA had finallyconcluded that long sojournson theplannedspacestationsand lunar outposts almostrequired the presence ofwomen.Victoriasetdownhercupof

coffeeandgazedattheimageof Venus on her laptop.“Leave it to a female,” shewent on, “to get the simplestthings ass-backwards.” Thiswas a reference to Venus’sretrogrademotion, to thefact

thatitturnedonitsaxisfromeasttowest.ThatUranusalsorotated in a retrogradedirection was ignored in thatparticular joke. Once Venus,the brilliant morning andeveningstar,hadbeenseenasa celestial embodiment offemale beauty. Now sheseemed to represent, forsome, female peculiarities,eccentricities, and just plainorneriness.“I thinkI’veheardthemall

by now,” Hillary said. Sheand Victoria sat at the smalltablewheretheastronautsatetheir meals. The constantthrust of the Sacajawas’sengines provided the one-ggravitational effect that kepttheir coffee in their cups andtheirbuttsintheirchairs;theywould not have to deal withtheweightlessnessoffreefalluntil they were in orbitaroundVenus.Victorialookedupfromher

computer. “Look, after thistrip,we’llprobablyeachgetaVenusian crater named afterus.”A crater called Rodham,

Hillary thought. That wassomethingtolookforwardto,as long as her crater didn’tbecomeyetanotherjoke.

To pursue her goal ofbecoming an astronaut hadmeant standing up to her

father.HughRodhamhadnotbeenaneasymantodefy.Hehaddiedalmostsixyearsago,andHillary still felt that lossdeeply, but her father hadalso been a hard andunbendingman.“So,” Hugh Rodham had

said to her at Wellesley,“you’ve made up your mindabout what school you’regoingtonextfall.”“Yes,” Hillary said. They

were in her dormitory room,

packing up her things. Herfather had driven the longdistance from Chicago toWellesleytoseehergraduate,leaving her mother with herbrothers Tony and Hugh, Jr.inParkRidge.“Heard you’re going to

some conference inWashington soon. Youngleaders of the future, theycalled it, whatever thatmeans.” Her solidlyRepublican father sounded

suspicious,asifshehadbeeninvited to join some sort ofleftistcabal.“It’s sponsored by the

League of Women Voters,Dad.” One of the reporterswhohadinterviewedherafterher speech must have toldhim before she could. Shehad decided to go, eventhough the event seemeddesigned largely for youngpeople who aspired topolitical careers. She might

meetsomepeoplewhocouldone day help her at NASA.Politicshaditsuses.“More money in being a

doctor,” he said, “than inwhat you plan to do.” Shethoughtofthegametheyhadplayedwhenshewasachild,when her father had tutoredherinthestatisticalmysteriesof the Chicago Tribune’sstock quotations and haddrilled her in how to choosegood investments. “Going to

medical school, or even lawschool, would make morepracticalsenseifyouhavetohave a career. You weretalking about being a doctoralllastyear.”It was true. Hillary had

temporarily lost sight of hergoal during the tumult of1968, with its shockingassassinations of MartinLuther King and RobertKennedy and the rioting inChicago during the

Democraticconvention,whenshehadgone into thecitybytrainonly towitnesskidsherage being beaten by police.The wounds inflicted onsociety by such tragedy anddisorder, especially on thepooranddisenfranchisedwhohad so few to fight for theirinterests, were intolerable toher.Shewouldgotomedicalschool,perhapsatHarvardorYale, and specialize inpediatrics.Shewouldsetupa

clinic in the inner city,perhapsinoneoftheChicagoneighborhoods she hadvisited with the ReverendDonald Jones and the youthgroupofParkRidge’sUnitedMethodist Church. Herpatients would be theimpoverished urban blacksand migrant workers forwhom she and her morefortunate friends hadorganized baby-sitting poolsandfooddrives.

But suchmusingshadbeenonly a brief detour from herlong-heldaim.Doingmedicalandbiochemicalresearchwasalsoawaytohelppeople,andif she became an astronautsomeday, she would have apublic forum—a bully pulpitof sorts—from which shecouldinspireothers todothegoodworksthatcouldchangesociety.“More money in being a

doctor,”herfatherrepeatedas

he sat down on one of thebeds.“Maybe so, but I’ve been

offered a real opportunity—Ihave to grab it. Things arechanging,Dad.”“Things are changing, all

right, and not always for thebetter. Dick Nixon wouldhave had an honorable peacewithvictory,not thisnamby-pambytime-to-reach-out-and-rebuild crapola. Youwouldn’t have seen Nixon

and Agnew acting likeHumphrey and Muskie,running around the countryapologizing to a lot of long-hairedkidsfor—”“Dad,”Hillarysaid,keeping

her temper incheck,“Idon’twant to talk about politics.”Politics by itself, she hadfinally concluded, would notsolve anything. PresidentHumphrey,withallhistalkofreconciliation, would begetting nowhere without the

promiseoftechnologicalfeatsthat would mark thebeginning of a new age.Businesses with newtechnologies would createnewwealth;peoplewouldlifttheir gaze from this smallplanettowhatlaybeyondit.Only such a dream could

rouse what was best in herspecies.Only theprospect ofgreat technological advances,and the wealth they wouldproduce for everyone, could

keephercountryfromtearingitself apart. At last the richandpowerfulmightbeabletoreachouttothelessfortunatewithout having to fear theloss of what they had. Thewretched of theworldwouldhaveatruehopeofimprovingtheirlot.“You’re stubborn, Hillary,”

her father said. “You won’tchange your mind, I can seethat.” He had said the samething when his once

Republican daughter hadcomehomefromcollegeanddeclaredherselfaDemocrat.Hillary sat down next to

him and put her hand on hisarm.“You’llbeproudofme.Where I’m going—it’s agreatschool.I’llbeoneofthefirst women to get a degreethere.”“Must not be much of a

school, then. Maybe theyloweredtheirstandards.”Hugh Rodham had always

belittled her and her brothersthat way. “Must be an easyschool you go to,” he hadmuttere dwhile perusing herreport card of straight A’s.“Must not be much of acollege,” he had said whenshe was accepted atWellesley. His words hadspurred her on instead ofdiscouraging her; she hadunderstood what he reallymeant: It’s hard out there.The world is a tough place,

and it’smy job tomake youtoughenough todealwith it.Being second-best isn’t goodenough; you’d better aimhigh.“Dad,” she said softly,

“you’re talking aboutCaltech.Icouldn’thavedoneany better. And Caltechdoesn’t lower standards foranybody.”

Venus was a world of

volcanoes.They ranged fromsmall shield volcanoes builtup slowly by repeated flowsof lava to huge shieldvolcanoesthatwerehundredsof miles across. Some wereflat-topped pancake domeswith steep sides, while stillothers,uniquetoVenus,werecircular coronae surroundedby rings of fractures andridges.“Here’s the deal,” Victoria

Cho had explained to the

reporters at the first pressconference for theSacajawea’s crew. “Like,some ninety per cent of thesurface of Venus isvolcanoes. You’ve got abigger variety of volcanicforms there than anywhereelse in the solar system.You’ve got these bigHawaiian-style jobs likeSapasMons,andthenyou’vegot these features we callcoronae that aren’t like

anything on Earth— thecoronaearethosebigcircularforms you see on the screenbehind me. Some of themhave lava flows spreadingout, some have shieldvolcanoes inside them. Mostofthesecoronaearen’tsobig,butthere’safewlikeArtemisCorona that are wayhumongous—about fifteenhundredmilesacross.And inaddition to all this seriousweirdness, you’ve got these

bigimpactcratersthatlookasif somebody just ploppedthem down there at the lastminute—the last minute, ingeological terms, meaninglessthanabillionyearsago.”Victoria folded her arms.

“Now about ten per cent ofthe Venusian surface is thisweirdterrainwecalltesserae,those bizarre, ruggeddeformed-looking expansesof really wrinkled land, andthey’re the oldest places on

thesurfaceofVenus.It’slikethe rest of the planet gotflooded by lava fromvolcanoes, and the tesseraeare islands. So here’s what Iwant toknow.Didthewholesurfacelooklikethatonce,alldeformedbytectonicactivity,or is it just that the tesseraeare so old that they’re, like,allcrackedandwrinkledfromage?”As wrinkled as some old

hag who’s spent too much

time at the beach, Hillarythought, rememberinganother crack she hadoverheard among thegeologists. Volcanoeserupting from time to time,atmospheric pressure sointense on the Venusiansurface that the loweratmosphereofcarbondioxidewas suspected tobe asmuchaliquidasagas,theextremeheat, the poisonous sulfuricacid in the clouds—all of it

made her think that givingVenus’s topographic featuresfemale names wasappropriate. The planetseemed as angry as womenought tobeaftercenturiesofmale oppression that hadoften been as oppressive asthe Venusian atmosphere.Venus could almost be seenastheplanetarymanifestationofajustfemalerage.

Hillary finished testing thecrew’slatestbloodsamplesinthe Sacajawea’s smalllaboratory, then left the lab.She was in effect the ship’sdoctor, given her degrees inbiochemistry and theparamedical training she hadacquired during her years oftraining with NASA. Alongwith some biologicalexperiments, she took bloodtests,checkedbloodpressure,analyzed urine samples,

monitored cardiac function,andmadeothermedical testsandobservations.Shedidnotexpect to see any signs ofcalcium loss or muscleatrophy until they were inorbitaroundVenusandagainweightless,but theywerenotlikely to be in free fall longenough for any such loss tobecomesignificant.Hillary’s cubicle was a

small chamber aft that wasabout the size of a large

closet. Inside were a narrowbed, a flat wall screen onwhich she could call upmovies, television programs,and other visual materialfrom the Sacajawea’sdatabases, and a soundsystem on which she couldlisten to selections from theship’s music library. She letthedoorslideshutbehindherand stretchedouton thebed,then impulsively reachedinside her pocket for her

devotional.The crewof theSacajawea

had been allowed to bringalong a few personal items.Among the few possessionsHillary had aboard were aChicago Cubs baseball cap,some favorite photos of herdaughter Chelsea Michelle,and her pocket Methodistdevotional of Scripturalpassages.Hillaryhadbeencarryinga

devotionalwithhereversince

her teen years, whenDonaldJones, her church’s youthminister,hadopenedtheeyesof his privileged whitecharges to theunfairnessandcruelty of the world. He hadbelieved that a trueChristianhad to be involved with theworld. Overcomingalienation, searching for andgiving meaning to modernlife—that was the way toredemption; doing goodworks andministering to the

troubled and less fortunatewasherduty.She had done what she

could, venturing out of thecitadels of Wellesley andCaltech to tutor children inBoston’s Roxbury and LosAngeles’s Watts, helping toorganizeamedicalclinicandchild care program for someof Houston’s working poor.Always she had felt that shecould have done more, thatshe had compromised, that

she had often placed toomuch importance on worldlythings. Still, if she had nottaken some trouble to makewhat had turned out to belucrative investments, herhusband, always oblivious topetty economic concerns,would have done little toprovide them with moresecurity. The dreamof spacehad drawn her, but also theknowledge that, as anastronaut, she would be able

to touchmore livesandhavea greater public forum. Shehad drifted away from herchildhood faith, but it hadhelped in forming her, inmaking her feel herobligationtoothers.Her husband had never

understood her spiritualbeliefs,suchastheywere.Tohim, science and religionwere adversaries. “I can livewith doubt and uncertaintyand not knowing,” he had

often said. “It’sbetter to livenot knowing than to have ananswerthatmightbewrong.Idon’t know how you canthink this whole universe isjust some stage where someGod’s watching peoplestruggle with good and evil.Doubting, admitting ourignorance—those are ourtoolsasscientists.”Theyhadarguedaboutalot

of things. She had almostalways lost the arguments,

butwentdownfighting.Nowshewouldgiveanythingtobeabletoarguewithhimagain.Hillary closed her eyes for amoment and felt the pain ofhislossoncemore.

Unedited interviewwithRitaBedosky by Jane Pauley for“The Voyage of theSacajawea,” report to beaired February 11, 1998 on“DatelineNBC.”

RITABEDOSKY:Youaregoingtoeditthis?JANE PAULEY: Yes, of

course.RB: You’ll have to—my

friends say I’m kind of amotormouth.JP (clears throat): We’re

speakingtoDr.RitaBedosky,who was one of astronautHillary Rodham’s closestfriends when they were bothgraduate students at theCalifornia Institute of

Technology. Dr. Bedosky isnowaprofessorofphysicsatAmerican University inWashington,D.C.RB:Whichiskindofweird,

when you consider it. Ialways thought that if oneofus was going to end up inWashington, it’d be Hillary.She was always morepoliticalthanmostofus.JP: She organized the first

Caltech women’s group,didn’tshe?

RB: Sure did, and we sureas hell needed one. Therewere so few of us back then—we really relied on thoseonce-a-week meetings formoral support. First it wasjust the grad students, butwhen they started admittingwomenasundergraduates,wewere there to look out forthem.AnditwasHillarywhosawthatwecouldhavesomevaluable allies if we broughtin the secretaries and office

workersandthecafeteriastaffand the cleaning women.With all those Caltech guys,we women had to sticktogether.JP:Soitwasroughforyou.RB: Imagine the Pope and

theCatholicChurchhavingtodeal with the first women intheCollegeofCardinals.Wewere intruding on the all-male priesthood of science.We didn’t belong there, theway some saw it, or elsewe

were freaks. It’s a lotdifferent at Caltech now, butwith us, about the best youcould hope for was to betreated as akindofhonoraryman.JP: Did Hillary Rodham,

coming into that extremelymale environment from awomen’s college, ever getdiscouraged?BEDOSKY: If shedid, she

never let on. Hillary wasabout the most together

person I’d ever met, evenback then. She was kind ofdriven, if you want to knowthe truth, and she knewexactly what she wanted todo.Shewasgoing togetherdoctorate in biochemistry,and then she was going toteachanddomedicalresearchon calcium deficiencies andbone loss and osteoporosis,because she guessed thatwould give her a better shotat being an astronaut

someday.And shewas right,given the physiologicalproblems theearly astronautsdeveloped on Skylab One,beforetheDoughnut—excuseme, Skylab-Mir Two—wasbuilt. And even with arevolving space station—(pause)JP: She told you back then

that she wanted to be anastronaut?RB:Yeah.Itwassomething

she basically kept to herself,

but I could tell she reallymeant it. She’d drive up toJPL—the Jet PropulsionLaboratory in Pasadena—every time she had a freemoment, to see what thelatest unmanned probesweresendingback.Sometimesshewas with her husband, whenhewasdoingsomeconsultingthere, but other times shewent by herself. Met someimportantpeoplethere,too—like I said, she was always

morepoliticalthantherestofus.JP: You were with Hillary

when she met her husband,weren’tyou?RB:Oh, yeah. Thatwas in

the spring of 1970. Hillaryand I were sitting in theGreasy—in the cafeteria,having some coffee. He wassittingata tablenearuswithsome other students, talkingand occasionally beating outarhythmonthetabletopwith

his hands—he played thebongo drums, you know—andhekeptstaringatHillary.This wasn’t the first time,either. About a week before,in the library, hewas staringat her, too. I rememberwondering why, becauseHillarywasn’t reallyhis type—he was more intoCaliforniablondes,yourbasicbabetype.Hillaryhadstartedlightening her hair some, butabout all she everworewere

sweatshirtsandjeansorloosedresses with Peter Pancollars, and she was stillwearing thick Coke-bottleglasses, but obviously hemust have noticed somethingthat interested him. So he’sstaring at her, and she’sstaringrightback.JP: And then what

happened?RB: Hillary said, “I’m

goingtogooverandspeaktohim,” and before I could say

anything, she got up andwalkedoverandsaid tohim,“Look, if you’re going tokeep staring at me and I’mgoing to keep staring back, Ithinkweshouldatleastknoweach other. I’m HillaryRodham.” And then she putoutherhand.JP: Her daughter told me

thatherfatherusedtotellthatstorytotheirfriends.RB: I think that’swhat got

to him, that Hillary had that

muchchutzpahandjustcameright up and introducedherself. So he said, “Well,I’m Dick Feynman.” But ofcourseshealreadyknewthat.

“That’sChelseawithherauntJoan, Dick’s sister,” Hillarysaid to Judy Resnik as theother woman sat down onHillary’s bunk. “And thisphoto was taken during herfreshman year at M.I.T.”

Chelsea Michelle Feynmanstronglyresembledherfather,with the same lean body,unruly hair, and slightlygoofy smile. There was solittle of Hillary in herdaughterthatitwasalmostasthoughshehadbeennomorethan a receptacle andincubator for her husband’sseed, as medieval physicianshadbelievedwomenwere.“And she’s going into

physics,”Judysaid,“justlike

her father and her aunt Joan.Itmustruninthefamily.”“Dick was a great father,”

Hillary said. “He liked beinga father so much that hewanted another child rightaway.Wekepttrying,andwewere thinking of adoptingwhen—” She paused. Evenafter all the years that hadpassed,shefounditpainfultorememberthattime.“He’dbeso proud of Chelsea now,”she finished. Her daughter,

she knew, had saved hermarriage.

Edited portion of interviewwith Daria Derrick byDeborah Norville for “InsideEdition,”tobeairedFebruary12,1998.DARIA DERRICK: It was

after Hillary moved intoDick’shouse.Supposedlyshewasstillsharinganapartmentwith her friendRita, but that

was just for cover—everybody knew she waslivingwithRichardFeynman.DEBORAH NORVILLE:

He’d broken upwith you bythen?DD:Oh, yeah.Not thatwe

were ever really goingtogether. Dick was a realLothario. I always knew hewasn’t serious aboutme, but—(pauses).DN:Yes?DD:When Iwaswithhim,

whenhewas focusingallhisattention—all that high-powered genius—on me, itwas like I was the onlywoman in the world. Hemight have been this NobelPrize-winning physicist, buthewasalsoaverysexyguy.DN: So you went over to

his house to get somethingyou’dleftthere.DD: Yeah, and Hillary

answered the door. She’donlybeenlivingwithhimfor

a couple of months, but shealready lookeddifferent—herhairwasalotblonder,foronething, and she was wearingcontact lenses. She wasdefinitelylookingmorelikeaCalifornia girl—probablythought that was the way tokeephiminterested.DN: Richard Feynman had

a lot of unhappiness in hispersonallife,didn’the?DD:Youcansaythatagain.

I still remember the night he

pulled out this old batteredsuitcase with all these oldletters and photographs fromhisfirstwife—Arline,theonewhodied in theForties fromtuberculosis. I realized thenthatIcouldneverbewhatshewas tohim,orwhathis thirdwifehadbeen tohim, either.He never talked much abouthissecondwife.DN:Theonewhodivorced

himduring theFifties on thegroundsofmentalcruelty?

DD: The one who claimedhe drove her crazy with hisbongo drums andwith doingcalculus problems in bed. Ithink he knew that marriagewas a mistake, but Arline—Arline was always going tobe perfect in his mind,because she passed away soyoung. And Gweneth, histhirdwife—ifshehadn’tdiedinthatcaraccident,Ithinkhewould have stayed happilymarriedtoher.Shewasreally

good for him. That’s whatoneofhisoldfriendstoldme,anyway—she loved him, butshe was sort of independent-minded, too. Maybe that’swhatattractedhimtoHillary.I thinkmaybehemarriedhertokeepherfrommovingout.She wanted a seriousrelationship, and I guess hewasreadyformarriageagainbythen.DN: Did Hillary tell you

thatherself?

DD:Oh,no.Shedidn’ttalkabout personal stuff withanybody,andIwasn’texactlyherbosombuddy.Imean,shehad tohaveknownDickhada roving eye, but she musthave forgiven him for it.After all, shewasmarried tooneof themostbrilliantmenintheworld,andthat’sworthmore than monogamy, isn’tit?

“I’mgettingmarried,”Hillarysaid to her parents over thephone.“Who’s the lucky young

man?”hermotherasked.Barely pausing for breath

between sentences, Hillaryexplained that shewas goingto marry a man who wasalmostthirtyyearsolderthanshe was and that this wouldbe his fourth marriage,quickly adding that he wastheworld-renownedphysicist

RichardFeynman,thathehadworked on the ManhattanProject to develop the firstatomic bomb during WorldWar II, and that he hadwontheNobelPrizeinphysicsforhis work in quantumelectrodynamicsin1965.A long silence ensued.

“He’s a Jew, isn’t he?” herfathersaidatlast.“Well, yes. He’s from a

Jewish family. Dick’s notveryreligious, though.Ifyou

must know,he’s basically anatheist.” Hillary heard hermothersigh.“Wewanttogetmarried before the fallsemester starts, and I hopeyou’llbothcomeouthereforthe wedding. Dick’s motherand sister will be there, too,but we’re not making a bigfuss.”“A physicist,” her father

said, still sounding toobewildered to get reallyangry. “Probably an absent-

mindedprofessor.”“He won the Nobel Prize,

Dad.”“There’s money in that,

isn’t there?Didheput it intosomegoodinvestments?”“Heusedsomeofittobuya

beachhouseinMexico.”“Well,Hillary,ifyou’dtold

me youweremarrying somehillbilly from the Ozarks, Icouldn’t be more surprised.”HughRodhamheavedasigh.“You’re of age. I can’t stop

you. I just hope you knowwhatyou’redoing.”“You will finish your

doctorate, won’t you?” hermother asked. “You won’tdropout.”“Of course I’ll finish it,”

Hillaryreplied.Hermarriage,unlike that of her parents,wouldbeatruepartnership,arelationship of equals, ameetingofminds.Itoccurredtoheronlylaterthatbeingthewife of Richard Feynman

would automatically give hera status it might otherwisehavetakenheryearstoattain.

“Shit,”VictoriaChosaid,notforthefirsttime.Hillary floated up fromher

chair as the Sacajawea fellaroundVenus.Theyhadbeenin free fall for almost thirty-six hours now, and hadlaunched the twoprobes,onetoward the area of Maxwell

Montes, the other toward anunusualvolcanonearArtemisChasma. Both probes hadfailed less than an hour afterenteringtheatmosphere.Over by the viewscreen

above the pilot’s station,Evelyn Holder was listeningtoSallyRide,thecapcomforthis mission. “The imagingteam isn’t happy about theprobes, either,” Sally wassaying, “but we’ll still havethe radar mapping, and the

most important thing is …everything else is nominal,everythingelseisa-okay.”The Sacajawea had begun

to decelerate on schedule,gradually slowing during thesecondlegoftheirjourneytoVenus. They had beenorbiting Venus for less thananhourbeforecongratulatorymessages were coming infrom the president and thetwo surviving formerpresidents, John Glenn and

RobertDole.“Everything’s a-okay,”

Victoriamuttered,“exceptforthe fucking probes. I wasreally looking forward towhat those babies might tellus.”Hillary drifted over to the

disappointedgeologist.“Lookat it thisway,” she said. “Atleast you weren’t the poorbastardwhohad to go to theKremlin and giveCommander Lebed the bad

news.” The Russians haddesigned and built the twoprobes.“Andthere’sboundtobe another Venus missionbefore too long, witheverythinggoingthiswell.”Victoria smiled, then

propelled herself toward thesmall screen showing theradar imaging of theVenusian surface. Hillary’sstomach lurched, then grewcalmer. Evelyn wasapparently over the worst of

her spacesickness. Victoria,also trained as apilot,wouldnothavetobringthemhome.Theywereall falling inside

theSacajaweaastheshipfellaround Venus. Hillary foundherself thinking of howDickhad explained gravity to thefive-year old Chelsea with along stick and two lead ballsdangling from a slowlytwistingfiber.Dickhadnotbeen thekind

of father that Hugh Rodham

hadbeentoher;shecouldnotimagine her own fathercrawling around on the floorwith her or telling herdetailed stories about animaginaryworldofpeoplesosmall that they could live inthecracksofwoodenplanks.“Remember, kiddo,” Dickhad said to his daughter inwhat Hillary always thoughtof as his Brooklyncabdriver’s voice, “there’salways plenty of roomat the

bottom of things. You’d beamazed how much roomthere is, as long assomething’s tiny enough.”Hugh Rodham, with hisreverence for authority,would never have told herwhat Dick had told Chelseaaboutherarithmetic.“Idon’tcare what the teacher toldyou,” he had said. “Thereisn’t just one right way tofigureout theanswer, there’sa lot of ways. You want to

solve the problem, you gottatrytodoitdifferentwaysandseewhatworks.Ifitisn’ttheteacher’s way, so what?”Sometimes, after deliveringyet another criticism ofaccepted wisdom, he wouldstare at Hillary, as if daringhertoobject.Sheknewheconsideredher

stodgy and conservative. Hecouldindulgehiscuriositybyskinny-dipping in Esalen’shot tubs, attending an est

conference on quantum-fieldtheory,orfloatingaroundinasensory deprivation tank, butsomebody had to deal withpractical matters. Someonehad to study whatinvestments to make, makecertainDickgotpaidwhathedeserved for his lectures,consulting jobs, and books,and placate the Caltechadministrators and faculty heannoyed with his refusal totend to the mundane and

distractingbusinessofwritinggrantproposalsandattendingfaculty meetings. Someonehad to take careof all that ifhe was to be free to ponderthe nature of the universe.She had been, to use ametaphor drawn from herMethodist youth, the MarthatohisMary.Hewasachild, still free to

question andwonder, a childwho was a genius, whooutshone even the brilliant

minds of his Caltechcolleagues. As she swamweightlessly toward theSacajawea’s starboard side,Hillary remembered how herhusband had floated abovethe constraints that boundothers.Apartnership, abondbetweenequals—thatwasthekind of marriage she hadsought, but itwas clear fromthe start that RichardFeynman had few mentalequals.

Itwasaprivilege,anhonor,to be married to such agenius. Sometimes she hadbelieved that.Atother times,shehadseenitasthekindofrationalization women hadalways grasped at forconsolation.After acquiring her Ph.D.,

Hillary had accepted aposition in the biologydepartment of U.C.L.A.,content to be removed fromthe more competitive, high-

powered, and intellectuallydemanding atmosphere ofCaltech. It was easier to useher political skills tomanagethe practical side of Dick’scareer while being on thefaculty of another university,if only to avoid conflict ofinterest.Shewasfreetoteachher classes and do herresearch without having tofeel that those she workedwithmightbecomparinghermoreconventionalmindwith

the brilliance of herhusband’s.

“It’s still experimental eyesurgery,” Hillary had toldDick one summer evening in1977, as they sat on aMexicanbeachwithChelsea,“butI’vereadallthemedicalstudies. With photorefractivekeratectomy,thereisarisk—I could end up with evenworse vision—but there’s

about a two-thirds chance ofendingupwithtwenty-twentyvision,andeven twenty-fortywouldbegoodenough.”Hewaslisteningtoherwith

his characteristic mixedexpression of curiosity andamusement. “Is it worth it?”heasked.“Well,itisn’tcheap.”“I wasn’t asking about the

cost, I was asking about therisk. Is it worth taking thechance and spending all that

doughjustsoyouwon’thavetowearcontacts?”Hillary watched as their

three-year-old daughterpatted down another sectionof a sand structure that wasbeginning to look like acyclotron. “That isn’t why Iwant the surgery,” shemurmured. “NASA wouldn’taccept anybody asnearsighted as I am forastronaut training. If theoperationsare successful, I’ll

haveachance.”That was the first time she

had confessed her long-heldambition to him. PresidentJohn Glenn’s recent speech,inwhichhehad recanted thetestimony he had givenbefore a Congressionalcommitteein1962,hadmadeher old dream flower insideher once more. “I arguedback then,” thepresidenthadsaid, “that women shouldn’tgo into space, that itwas the

job of men to take risksexploring the unknown. Asmy wife and daughterrecently reminded me, I canbemighty short-sighted foraguy who used to be a pilot.It’s time for women to joinmen in exploring the frontierofspace.”“We’d have to move to

Houston if they acceptedme,” Hillary went on, “butany university in Texaswould jump at the chance to

have you on the faculty.They’d probably pay you alotmorethanCaltech.”Her husband said, “Let’s

see how your eye surgerygoesfirst.”That night, he ran for the

bathroom in their beachhouse and vomited. Thatautumn, still recovering fromthe first operationonher lefteye, she finally persuadedhim to consult his doctor,who found nothing. In the

spring of 1978, with twenty-twenty vision in her left eyeand her right eye healingrapidly, Hillary finally gothim to a specialistrecommended by hercolleaguesatU.C.L.A.Dick had a tumor of the

abdomen. The surgeon whooperated on him told her itwas myxoid liposarcoma, arare form of cancer that hadalready destroyed his spleenand one of his kidneys. He

had an 11 to 41 per centchance of surviving fiveyears, depending on whichstudy she looked at. It washighlyunlikelythathewouldliveanothertenyears.Hillary forced herself to

ignore two possibilities,neither of which she wouldevermentiontohim.Thefirstwas that his work at LosAlamos on the atomic bombmight have been responsiblefor his disease. The second

wasthat,hadshenotbeensopreoccupied with her eyesurgery and her applicationsand interviews with NASA,she might have noticed theslight bulge at his waistearlier, might have pushedhim into seeing thephysicians and specialistssoonenoughforthemtohavesavedhim.

Hillary had not dreamed of

her husband for some time,but now, drifting betweensleep andwakefulness as theSacajaweaorbitedVenus,shefound herself standing on asunlitbeach,watchinghimashewadedinthesurf.Shehaddreamedofhimalmosteverynight after his death, and thedreams had convinced herthathewasstillalive,thattherecurring tumors and thesecond rare type of cancerthat had struck at his bone

marrowandthefailureofhisremaining kidney had neverhappened,hadbeenmistakendiagnoses, until shewoke upandonceagainremembered.Everythingsheknew,allthe

research she had done, waspowerless to help him. Thathe had lived for another tenyears after his diagnosis hadbeen beating the odds.Whathad kept him going was hiswork, his feeling that therewasstillsomuchtoteachand

to learn, somanymorewaysto find and use the languageofmathematicstoconveythesimple and beautiful laws ofphysicalreality.She had withdrawn her

application to NASA,devoting herself to makinghisremainingtimeascarefreeas possible. The thought thatNASA might be unlikely towelcome as an astronaut awoman who would disruptthe life of a stricken man,

especially a man who wasone of the world’s greatestphysicists, crossed her mindforonlyamoment,andmadeher despise herself forthinkingit.“You know,” he had told

her a few years before hisdeath, “I don’t think we’dstill be married if we didn’thaveChelsea.Therewouldn’thave been enough to hold ustogether.” Cruel as thestatement seemed, she knew

it to be the truth. Rooted inconventionality,toilingatherownwork and taking careofall the practical matters hesawasdistractions,sheknewthat they had begun to driftapartevenintheearliestdaysof their marriage. Havingtheir daughter had linked hisquicksilver brilliance to herstolidity; he had lovedChelsea enough to again feelsome love for Hillary. Shecould look at their child and

see what she herself mighthavebecomegrowingupinadifferent world, a world ofsun and sand and a fatherwhocould reveal thewonderandbeautyofthatworld.After his death, she gave

him the simple burial he hadwanted, with no ritual andonly herself, their daughter,and Dick’s sister and one ofhis cousins to mourn him atthe graveside. Amonth afterthat, his friends and

colleagues at Caltech held amemorial gathering in hishonor. Hillary found herselfin a large auditorium packedwith fellow physicists,graduate students, formerstudents, engineers from theJet Propulsion Laboratory,oldgirlfriends,andeccentricsDickhadmetonthebeachorin bars and cafes whileplayinghisbongodrums.Thewritten eulogy she hadprepared suddenly seemed

inadequate; it wasconventional, sentimental,stodgy—all the things herhusbandwasnot.She was to be the first to

speak. She left her writtenremembrance on her chair;she would speak from herheart.Chelsea watched her with

Dick’seyesasHillarywalkedtothepodium,lookedintothesea of faces, and said,“Toward the end of Dick’s

life, my dear husband and Iused to talk about—pardonthe cliché—the meaning oflife. I can think of nothingmoreappropriatenowthantooffer some of his ownremarks on that topic.” Hehad expressed suchsentimentsoftenenough, andthe outlook they expressedwassocentraltohislife,thatshe could easily recall hiswords. “He would say, ‘Ihave approximate answers

and different degrees ofcertainty about things, butI’m not totally sure ofanything and there’s a lot Idon’t know, such aswhetheritmeansanythingatalltoaskwhy we’re here. But I canlivewiththat,anddiewithit,too. I’m not scared by notknowing, by being in auniversewithoutanypurpose,andasfarasIcantell, that’show it is. It doesn’t frightenme. I’d rather admit I don’t

know than grab at someanswer that might bewrong.’“Hillary paused, afraid for a

moment that she might cryagain. “That was how helivedhis life,andthat’swhathe believed right up to theend.” The certainties of herMethodistyouthwereoflittleuse now; Dick would havebeen furious at her anddisappointedinherifshehadinvokedthem.Overtheyears,

some of his doubt anduncertaintyhadcreptintoherview of the universe. Heroccasional prayers andScripturalreadingsweremorea nostalgic reminder of acomfort her spiritual beliefshad once provided than anaffirmation of faith. Shewondered if she ever wouldhave come to that kind ofagnosticism without herhusband’s influence. Againsteverything she had been

taughtinchildhood,shecouldeven believe that her doubtsmighthavemadeherabetterperson. There had alwaysexisted in her a tendency toself-righteousness; doubtmade her more conscious ofherfailings.Hillarybowedherhead.She

would honor her husband’smemory by not praying forhim.

Hillary strapped herself intoherseat.“Idon’tknowaboutyou,” Evelyn said from herpilot’s seat, “but I’m a littlescared.” It was an admissionnone of them would havemadehadanymaleastronautsbeenpresent.Theship’sdrivemight fail, stranding them inorbit around Venus. TheSacajawea might accelerateuntil the midpoint of theirreturn journey and neverdecelerate. If the mission

failed, it would almostmakecertain that they would allhave Venusian geologicalfeatures named afterthemselves, which wasn’texactlyconsoling.“Maybe someday, people

will settle Venus,” Chelseahad told Hillary in a phonecall from MIT a couple ofmonthsago.“Noway,”Hillaryhadsaid.

“You’d need a completelydifferentplanet.”

“That’s what I meant,Mom.” Chelsea had gone onto speak of terraforming—engineeringalgae to seed thesulfuricclouds,findingawaytoshieldVenus from thesunso that it could cool, maybeeven using thenanotechnology RichardFeynman had envisioned,twentyyearsbeforetherewasevenanamefor thatfield, tobuild microscopic machinescapable of altering the

planetary environment on amolecular level. Hillary hadsuddenly wished thatChelsea’s father could haveseen what his daughter hadbecome, how much of himtherestillwasinher.She was suddenly

overwhelmed by a vision ofVenus as a future home forhumankind. A terraformedVenus would not isolatecolonists and theirdescendants fromEarth, as a

colonized Mars wouldthrough the necessaryadaptation to a much lowergravity. People would comeand go freely. Sherememberedall thestoriesofVenusshehadreadasagirl,from the swampy planet oftheearliest tales tothevisionofhelltransformedintoanewgarden.“All systems go,” Evelyn

murmured. “Girls, we’rereadytoroll.”Foramoment,

Hillary had the sensation ofbeing outside herself, asthougheverythingaroundherwere no more than a dimlyimagined possibility that hadnevercome topass, and thenthe thrustof theSacajawea’sengines pressed her againstherseat.They were on their way

home—but with the successof this mission, Hillary wassure that Earth would notremain humankind’s only

home for long. The Moon’sresearchoutpostswouldsoonwelcome settlers, and therewouldbeMarstoexplore.AsVenus shrank on the rearview-screen, Hillary recalledthe fifteen-year-old girl inParkRidgewhohaddreamedofbecominganastronaut,andknew that in spite of thesetbacksanddelays,theyearsof postponing her dream andfinallywinningaplace as anastronautand thenofwaiting

forachanceatamission,thatall of the hard work and thesacrifices and thedisappointments had beenworthit.Shehadkept faithwithher

youngerself.

Evelyn Holder had broughther husband to the WhiteHousereceptionanddinnerinhonor of the four astronauts.Judith Resnik was

accompaniedbySenatorBobKerrey,whowas rumored tobegettingmoreseriousabouther;ifhediddecidetorunforPresident,havinganastronautas a wife could only help.Victoria Cho had her goodfriend Ellison Onizuka,fellow astronaut and spacestationveteran,intow.Hillary stood with her

daughter, smiling andnodding as she shook handsand exchanged pleasantries

withtheotherguests.ChelseaFeynman, who had given upher usual uniform of jeansand sweatshirts for a longblue silk dress, was holdingthe medal that the Presidenthadpresented toHillary.Sheproudlyopenedthesmallboxto show the medal to theVice-President, as she hadearlierwhenformerPresidentGlennhadaskedtoseeit.“You know,” the Vice-

Presidentwassaying,“Itruly

envy your mother. I wouldhave loved to have been anastronautmyself.Youshouldbe very proud of yourmother.”“Iam,”Chelseasaid.Hillary smiled as theVice-

President turned over hermedal to read the inscriptionon the back; he was both aspace policywonk and a bigsupporter of NASA, so shehadresolvedtobeaspleasanttohimaspossible,despitehis

reputationassomethingofanopportunistandahatchetmanforthePresident.Atanyrate,Vice-President NewtGingrich seemed on his bestbehaviortonight.“To Hillary Rodham

Feynman,” Vice-PresidentGingrich read from themedal, “for the courage shehas shown in the explorationof space.” He beamed at herand her daughter. Hillaryrememberedhow,ayearafter

Dick’s death, she hadimpulsively added his lastname to her own on herapplication to NASA. Inpublic, she was still knownby her own name, the nameshe had kept throughout hermarriage, but in NASA’srecords and any awards shereceivedforherserviceasanastronaut, she would alwaysbe listed as Hillary RodhamFeynman. Her feminist soulwas at peace with that; her

husband, perhaps in moreways than even she realized,had helped to make a betterspace program possible. Hisconsultationswith theNASAscientistsandengineersattheJet Propulsion Laboratory,she was sure, had saved thespaceagencymanymistakes,perhapsevendisasters.The First Lady, taller in

person than she seemed onTV and with a mass ofattractive curly brown hair,

bore down on them,apparently about to rescueHillaryandChelsea from theVice-President. MarySteenburgen Clinton mightgivetheappearanceofasoft-spoken Southern lady, but itwas widely believed that herhusband might never haverisen to become presidentwithout her. Not long aftermarrying the up-and-comingyoung Arkansan politicianWilliam Jefferson Clinton in

the early Eighties, MaryClinton had given up apromisingcareerasanactressto become her husband’sclosest advisor andunofficialcampaign manager. Acharming but disorganized,undisciplined, skirt-chasing,and only intermittentlysuccessfulpoliticianhadgoneon to win election as hisstate’sgovernor,asasenator,and finally as president in1992. Mary Clinton’s gentle

demeanor, it was said, wasonly part of a publicperformance that concealedasharp political intelligenceand the well-honed instinctsofafemaleMachiavelli.“That Bill Clinton was

always a right smart youngfeller,”oneofthePresident’sold mentors from Arkansashad said in a televisioninterview, after PresidentClinton had won a secondterm by a landslide, “but it

wasMarywhodonewhippedhim into shape.” Hillarycould well believe that.PresidentBillClinton,despitehismanyaccomplishmentsinoffice, struck her—in hispublic persona, anyway—asthe kind of charming rogue,weakatthecenter,whomightnever have won over theAmerican public had he notbeenprecededinhisofficebythe upright John Glenn andthedourBobDole.Hecould

be grateful that people hadgrown tired of such rectitudeandnowwanted toenjoy thefruits of prosperity with amorecongenial and laxchiefexecutive.“Ms. Rodham,” Mary

Steenburgen Clintonmurmured as she shookHillary’shand,“Iamsogladyou and your daughter couldboth be with us. I must tellyou that of all the dinnerswe’ve had in the White

House so far, I have lookedforwardtothisonethemost.”Hillary very much doubted

that, but the sincerity andwarmth in the First Lady’svoicewas enough towinherover. “Yougaveawonderfulperformance in Time AfterTime,” she responded. “It’soneofmyfavoritefilms.”“That British dude who

played H.G. Wells in itwasn’t bad, either,” Chelseaadded.

Hillary glanced at herdaughter, who probablydidn’t know that it waswidely rumored that MarySteenburgenClintonhadbeenromantically involved withher leading man in thatmovie,whichhadbeenmadebefore her marriage to BillClinton, but the First Ladywasstillsmiling.“Malcolm McDowell, you

mean,” Mary Clinton said.“No,hewasn’tbadatall.”

ThisPresident andhiswifehad a reputation forinformality, and people werealready moving toward theentrancetothediningroominno discernible order. Hillarylingered near her daughter,who was answering Ms.Clinton’s queries about herpostgraduate work and herlife in Boston, uncertain ofwhattodonow,whenshefelta hand gently touch herelbow.

“Ms.Rodham?”Hillary turned and found

herself looking up into theeyes of the President of theUnitedStates.Hehadshakenher hand impersonally at theearlier ceremony, when themembers of the Venusmission had been presentedwith their medals, but nowhis gaze was definitelyfocused on her. With thatbroadgrinandthattwinkleinhis eye, she could almost

believe that he was flirtingwithher,unlikelyasthatwaswithhiswifestandingnearby.“Mr. President,” Hillary

said.Bill Clinton took her right

hand and pressed it betweenboth of his. “You and yoursister astronauts haveaccomplished a wonderfulthing,” he said, “traveling toVenus and back. I’ve alwayshad great admiration forbrave and brilliant women,

and it’s a privilege to haveyouallasourguests.”Hewasacharmer,allright.Their eyes locked … and

thenthemomentpassed.The President moved away

and gracefully took the FirstLady’sarm.Chelsea glanced at Hillary

andsmiled.Hillary followed her

daughter toward the WhiteHouse dining room, wherethe tableswaited beneath the

glitteringchandeliers.

Afterwordto“Hillary

OrbitsVenus”:

This story seemed a naturalafterwriting“DannyGoes toMars,” and in fact I had theidea for a Hillary story notlong after “Danny” waspublished, yet this storybalked at being written anddidn’treachfruitionforsomeyears. I just couldn’t get ahandle on Hillary as a

character, a difficulty I seemto have shared with a greatmany Americans. Are wetalking about Lady Macbethhere,agraspingmaterialist,asincere do-gooder, or simplya woman greedy for power?Maybe we’re simply talkingabout a politician, a speciesof being whose primarymodusoperandiisnottogiveawaythegameoneisplayingand one’s deep longing forthat game’s ultimate

overriding goal, namelypower, to the citizenry atlarge.When thesemasters ofgame-playing, deception,sincere-sounding insincerity,and hypocrisy are complexenough in their personalities,depicting them convincingly,rather than only caricaturingthem, poses a formidabletask.Hillary Clinton is, to her

credit, endlessly interesting.IntheageofrealityTVanda

publicappetiteforgossipthatseemstoincreasebytheday,theleastwecanexpectofourrulers is that they provide uswithplentyofentertainment.A number of characters in

“Hillary Orbits Venus” areobviously based on realpeople. Here is whathappened in our world,prejudicially known as “therealworld,”tosomeofthem:Judith Resnik and Ellison

Onizuka were mission

specialists who died aboardthe space shuttle Challengerwhen it exploded seventy-three seconds after takeofffromCapeCanaveral,FloridaonJanuary28,1986.Jerrie Cobb was one of

thirteen women pilots whopassed all of NASA’srigorous tests for astronautsin 1960, beforeNASAmadethe decision to accept onlymen with experience asmilitary test pilots into the

astronaut corps. Cobbtestified at Congressionalhearings in 1962 in favor ofaccepting women into theastronaut program, butsixteen years passed beforewomen became astronauts intheU.S.; in1983,SallyRidebecame the first Americanwoman in space. JerrieCobbhasspentnearlyfourdecadesas a pilot flying seeds andmedical supplies to peopleliving in remote areas of the

Amazon rain forest, and hasbeen nominated for a NobelPeacePrize.Senator Edward M.

Kennedy was not in Floridaduring the flight of Apollo11, but in Massachusetts,where he was involved in acar accident nearChappaquiddick that resultedin the death of a formerKennedy campaign worker,MaryJoKopechne.Richard Feynman’s last

public service was as amember of the presidentialcommission appointed toinvestigate the causes of theChallenger disaster. Histestimony at a hearing onFebruary 10, 1986, in whichhe demonstrated the lack ofresiliencyintheChallenger’sO-rings at low temperaturesby dropping a piece of thematerial used tomanufacturethem into ice water,dominated that day’s news

reports of the commission’sfindings.HediedonFebruary15, 1988, with his wife,Gweneth Howarth Feynman,at his side; they were theparents of two children, Carland Michelle. “Infinity”(1996), a motion pictureabout Feynman’s early yearsand his marriage to his firstwife, Arline Greenbaum,featured Matthew Broderickin the role of the youngRichardFeynman.

MarySteenburgenwasbornand grew up in Arkansas. In1980, she won an AcademyAward as Best SupportingActress in “Melvin andHoward” and marriedMalcolm McDowell, hercostar in“TimeAfterTime;”theywere divorced ten yearslater. Active in politics, shecampaigned for Bill Clintonin 1992. She married actorTedDansoninthelate1990s;PresidentClintonandHillary

Rodham Clinton were guestsat the Steenburgen-Dansonwedding.In 2000, Hillary Rodham

Clinton won election to theUnited States Senate fromNewYorkState.

FEARS

I was on my way back toSam’swhenacoupleofboystried to runme off the road,banging my fender a littlebefore they sped on, lookingfor another target.My throattightened and my chestheaved as I wiped my facewith a handkerchief. Theboys had clearly strippedtheir car to the minimum,

ditching all their safetyequipment, knowing that thehighway patrol was unlikelyto stop them; the police hadotherthingstoworryabout.The car’s harness heldme;

itsdashboardlightsflickered.AsIwaitedforit tosteermebackontotheroad,theenginehummed,choked,anddied. Iswitched over tomanual; theenginewassilent.I felt numb. I had prepared

myself for my rare journeys

into the world outside myrefuge,workingtoperfectmydisguise.Myangular,coarse-featured face stared back atme from themirroroverheadas Iwondered if I could stillpass. I had cut my hairrecently,mychestwasstillasflat as a boy’s, and theslightly padded shoulders ofmy suit imparted a bit ofextrabulk.Ihadalwaysbeentaken foramanbefore,but Ihad never done more than

visit a few out-of-the-way,dimly lighted stores wheretheproprietorslookedcloselyonlyatcardsorcash.Icouldn’twaitthererisking

a meeting with the highwaypatrol.Thepolicemight looka bit too carefully at mypapersandadministerabodysearch on general principles.Straywomenhadbeenpickedupbefore,andtherewardsforsuchadiscoveryweregreat;Iimagined uniformed men

groping at my groin, andshuddered. My disguisewouldgetarealtest.Itookadeep breath, released theharness, then got out of thecar.

The garage was half a mileaway.Imadeittherewithoutenduring more than a fewhonksfrompassingcars.The mechanic listened to

myhuskyvoiceasIdescribed

my problem, glanced at mycard, tookmykeys, then leftinhistowtruck,accompaniedbyayoungermechanic. I satin his office, out of sight ofthe other men, trying not tolet my fear push me intopanic.The carmight have toremain here for some time; Iwouldhavetofindaplacetostay. The mechanic mightevenoffermealifthome,andIdidn’twanttoriskthat.Sammightbeabittootalkativein

the man’s presence; themechanic might wonderabout someone who lived insuchaninaccessiblespot.Myhands were shaking; I thrustthemintomypockets.Istartedwhenthemechanic

returned to his office, thensmiled nervously as heassuredmethatthecarwouldbe ready in a few hours; acomponenthadfailed,hehadanotherlikeitintheshop,noproblem. He named a price

that seemed excessive; Iwasabout to object, worried thatargumentmightonlyprovokehim, then worried still morethat I would look odd if Ididn’t dicker with him. Isettled for frowning as heslipped my card into histerminal, thenhanded itbacktome.“No sense hanging around

here.” He waved one beefyhand at the door. “You canpickupa shuttle to townout

there, comesbyevery fifteenminutesorso.”I thanked him and went

outside,tryingtodecidewhatto do. I had been successfulso far; the other mechanicsdidn’t even look at me as Iwalked toward the road. Anentrance to the town’sunderground garage was justacross the highway; a small,glassy building with a signsaying “Marcello’s” stoodnext to the entrance. I knew

whatserviceMarcellosold; Ihad driven by the placebefore. Iwouldbe saferwithone of his employees, andless conspicuous if I keptmoving; curiosity overcamemy fear for amoment. I hadmademydecision.

IwalkedintoMarcello’s.Onemanwas at a desk; threebigmensatonasofanearoneofthe windows, staring at the

small holo screen in front ofthem. Iwent to the desk andsaid, “I want to hire abodyguard.”The man behind the desk

looked up; his mustachetwitched. “An escort. Youwantanescort.”“Callitwhateveryoulike.”“Forhowlong?”“Aboutthreeorfourhours.”“Forwhatpurpose?”“Just a walk through town,

maybe a stop for a drink. I

haven’t been to town for awhile, thought I might needsomecompany.”Hisbrowneyesnarrowed.I

had said too much; I didn’thave to explain myself tohim.“Card.”I got out my card. He

slipped it into his outlet andpeered at the screen while Itried to keep from fidgeting,expectingthemachinetospitoutthecardevenafterallthistime. He returned the card.

“You’llgetyourreceiptwhenyoucomeback.”Hewavedahand at themen on the sofa.“I got three available. Takeyourpick.”Themanonmyrighthada

lean, mean face; the one onthe left was sleepy-eyed.“Themiddleguy.”“Ellis.”The middle man stood up

and walked over to us. Hewas a tall blackmandressedinabrownsuit;helookedme

over, and I forced myself togazedirectlyathimwhilethemanatthedeskrummagedina drawer and took out aweapon and holster, handingthemtomyescort.“Ellis Gerard,” the black

man said, thrusting out ahand.“Joe Segor.” I took his

hand; he gripped mine justlong enough to show hisstrength,thenletgo.Thetwomen on the sofa watched us

aswe left,as if resentingmychoice, then turned back tothescreen.

We caught a shuttle intotown.Afewoldmensatnearthefrontofthebusunderthewatchful eyes of the guard;five boys got on behind us,laughing,butalookfromtheguard quieted them. I toldmyself again that Iwould besafewithEllis.

“Where to?” Ellis said aswe sat down. “A visit to apretty boy? Guys sometimeswantescortsforthat.”“No,justaround.It’sanice

day—wecouldsitintheparkforawhile.”“Idon’tknowifthat’ssuch

agoodidea,Mr.Segor.”“Joe.”“Those crossdressers hang

out a lot there now. I don’tlike it. They go there withtheirfriendsanditjustcauses

trouble—it’s a bad element.Youlookatthemwrong,andthen you’ve got a fight. Itoughttobeagainstthelaw.”“What?”“Dressing like a woman.

Looking like what you’renot.” He glanced at me. Ilooked away, my jawtightening.We were in town now,

moving toward the shuttle’sfirst stop. “Hey!” one of theboys behind us shouted.

“Look!” Feet shuffled alongtheaisle;theboyshadrushedto the right side of the busand were kneeling on theseats, hands pressed againstthe window; even the guardhadturned.EllisandIgotupand changed seats, lookingout at what had drawn theboys’attention.A car was pulling into a

spot in front of a store. Ourdriverputdownhismagazineandslowedthebusmanually;

he obviously knew hispassengers wanted a look.Cars were not allowed intown unless a woman wasriding in one; even I knewthat. We waited. The busstopped; a group of youngmen standing outside thestorewatchedthecar.“Come on, get out,” a boy

behind me said. “Get out ofthecar.”Twomengotout first.One

ofthemyelledattheloiterers,

who moved down the streetbefore gathering under alamppost. Another manopened the back door, thenheldouthishand.She seemed to float out of

the car; her long pink robeswirled around her ankles asshe stood. Her hair wascovered by a long, whitescarf. My face grew warmwith embarrassment andshame. I caught aglimpseofblack eyebrows and white

skin before her bodyguardssurrounded her and led herintothestore.The driver pushed a button

and picked up his magazineagain; the bus moved on.“Thinkshewasreal?”oneoftheboysasked.“I don’t know,” another

replied.“Bet she wasn’t. Nobody

would let a real woman gointoastorelikethat.IfIhadagirl, I’d never let her go

anywhere.”“If I had a trans, I’d never

lethergoanywhere.”“Those trans guys—they

got it made.” The boysscrambledtowardthebackofthebus.“Definitely a trans,” Ellis

said tome. “I can tell. She’sgotamannishkindofface.”I said, “You could hardly

seeherface.”“Isawenough.Andshewas

too tall.” He sighed. “That’s

thelife.Alittlebitofcuttingand trimming and someimplants,andthereyouare—youdon’thavetoliftafinger.You’relegallyfemale.”“It isn’t just a little bit of

cutting—it’smajorsurgery.”“Yeah. Well, I couldn’t

have been a transsexualanyway, not with my body.”Ellis glanced at me. “Youcouldhavebeen,though.”“Neverwantedit.”“It’snot abad life in some

ways.”“I like my freedom.” My

voicecaughtonthewords.“That’s why I don’t like

crossdressers. They’ll dresslikeawoman,buttheywon’tturn into one. It just causestrouble—you get the wrongcues.”The conversation was

makingmeuneasy;sittingsoclose toEllis, hemmed in byhis body and the bus’swindow, made me feel

trapped. The man was tooobservant. I gritted my teethand turned toward thewindow. More stores hadbeenboardedup;wepassedabrick school building withshattered windows and anempty playground. The townwasdeclining.

We got off in the businessdistrict,where therewas stilla semblance of normal life.

Men in suits came and wentfromtheiroffices,hoppedonbuses,strolledtowardbarsforanearlydrink.“It’s pretty safe around

here,”Ellissaidaswesatonabench.Thebenchhadbeenwelded to the ground; itwascoveredwithgraffiti andoneleg had been warped. Oldnewspapers lay on thesidewalk and in the gutterwithotherrefuse.Oneboreaheadline about the African

war;another,morerecent,thelatest news about Bethesda’sartificialwombprogram.Thenews was good; two morehealthy children had beenborntotheproject,aboyanda girl. I thought ofendangered species andextinction.A police car drove by,

followed by another carwithopaquewindows.Ellis gazedafter the car and sighedlongingly,asifimaginingthe

woman inside. “Wish I wasgay,”he said sadly, “but I’mnot.I’vetriedtheprettyboys,butthat’snotforme.Ishouldhave been a Catholic, andthen I could have been apriest. I live like oneanyway.”“Too many priests already.

The Church can’t afford anymore. Anyway, you’d reallybefrustratedthen.Theycan’teven hear a woman’sconfession unless her

husband or a bodyguard iswithher.It’sjustlikebeingadoctor. You could go nutsthatway.”“I’ll nevermake enough to

afford a woman, even atrans.”“There might be more

women someday,” I said.“That project at Bethesda’sworkingout.”“MaybeIshouldhavegone

on one of those expeditions.There’s one they let into the

Philippines, and anotherone’sinAlaskanow.”I thought of a team of

searchers coming for me. Ifthey were not dead beforethey reached my door, Iwouldbe;Ihadmadesureofthat. “That’s a shadybusiness,Ellis.”“Thatgroup in theAmazon

actually founda tribe—killedall the men. No one’ll letthem keep the women forthemselves, but at least they

haveenoughmoneytotryforone at home.” Ellis frowned.“I don’t know. Trouble is, alot of guys don’t misswomen.Theysaytheydo,buttheyreallydon’t.Evertalktoa real old-timer, one that canrememberwhatitwaslike?”“Can’tsayIhave.”Ellis leanedback.“Alotof

those guys didn’t really likegirls all thatmuch.Theyhadplaces they’d go to get awayfrom them, things they’d do

together.Womendidn’tthinkthe same way, didn’t act thesame—they never did asmuchasmendid.”Heshadedhis eyes for a moment. “Idon’t know—sometimes oneof those old men’ll tell youtheworldwasgentlerthen,orprettier, but I don’t know ifthat’s true. Anyway, a lot ofthose women must haveagreed with the men. Lookwhat happened—as soon asyou had that pill that could

makeyousureyouhadaboyifyouwanted,oragirl,mostof them started having boys,so they must have thought,deep down, that boys werebetter.”Another police car drove

past;oneoftheofficersinsidelookedusoverbeforedrivingon.“Takeatrans,”Ellissaid.“Oh, you might envy her alittle, but no one really hasany respect for her. And theonly real reason for having

anywomenaroundnowisforinsurance—somebody’s gotto have the kids, and wecan’t.ButoncethatBethesdaproject really gets going andspreads,wewon’tneed themanymore.”“Isupposeyou’reright.”Fouryoungmen,dressedin

work shirts and pants,approached us and stareddownatussilently.IthoughtoftheboysIhadonceplayedwith before what I was had

made a difference, before Ihad been locked away. Oneyoung man glanced quicklydownthestreet;another tooka step forward. I stared backand made a fist, trying tokeepmy hand from shaking;Ellissatupslowlyandlethisright hand fall to his waist,near his holster. We keptstaringuntil thegroup turnedfromusandwalkedaway.“Anyway, you’ve got to

analyze it.” Ellis crossed his

legs. “There’s practicalreasonsfornothavingalotofwomen around. We needmore soldiers—everybodydoesnow,withallthetroubleintheworld.Andpolice,too,withcrimethewayitis.Andwomen can’t handle thosejobs.”“Once people thought they

could.”Myshouldermuscleswere tight; I had almost saidwe.“But they can’t. Put a

womanupagainstaman,andtheman’ll alwayswin.”Ellisdraped an arm over the backof the bench. “And there’sother reasons, too. Thoseguys in Washington likekeeping women scarce,having their pick of thechoiceonesfor themselves—it makes their women morevaluable. And a lot of thekids’ll be theirs, too, fromnowon.Oh, theymight loanawomanouttoafriendonce

inawhile,and I suppose thewomb project’ll changethings some,but it’llbe theirworldeventually.”“And their genes,” I said. I

knewthatIshouldchangethesubject, but Ellis had clearlyaccepted my pose. In hisconversation, the ordinarytalk of one man to another,thelongestconversationIhadhad with a man for manyyears, I was looking for asign, something to keep me

fromdespairing.“Howlongcanitgoon?”I

continued. “The populationkeeps shrinkingeveryyear—therewon’tbeenoughpeoplesoon.”“You’re wrong, Joe.

Machinesdoalotoftheworknow anyway, and there usedto be too many people. Theonly way we’ll ever havemore women is if someonefinds out the Russians arehaving more, and that won’t

happen—they need soldiers,too. Besides, look at it thisway—maybe we’re doingwomenafavoriftherearen’tasmanyof them.Wouldyouwant to be a woman, havingto bemarried by sixteen, notbeingabletogoanywhere,nojob until she’s at least sixty-five?”And no divorce without a

husband’s permission, nocontraception, no highereducation—all the special

privileges and protectionscould not make up for that.“No,” I said to Ellis. “Iwouldn’t want to be one.”YetIknewthatmanywomenhadmadetheirpeacewiththeworld as it was, extortinggifts and tokens from theirmen,glorying in theirbeautyand their pregnancies,lavishing their attention ontheir children and theirhomes, tormenting andmanipulating their men with

the sure knowledge that anywoman could find anotherman—for if a woman couldnotgetadivorcebyherself,aman more powerful than herhusband could force him togive her up if hewanted herhimself.Ihaddreamedofguerrillas,

of fightingwomen tooproudto give in, breeding strongdaughters by a captive maleto carry on the battle. But ifthereweresuchwomen,they,

likeme,hadgone toground.The world had been moremercifulwhenithaddrownedorstrangledusatbirth.Once,when Iwasyounger,

someonehadsaidithadbeena conspiracy—develop afoolproof way to give acoupleachildofthesextheywanted, and most of themwouldnaturally chooseboys.The population problemwould be solved in timewithout having to resort to

harshermethods, and a blowwouldbeleveledatthoseoldfeministswho had demandedtoo much, trying toemasculate men in theprocess. But I didn’t think ithadbeenaconspiracy.Ithadsimply happened, as it wasbound to eventually, and thevalues of society hadcontrolledbehavior.Afterall,why shouldn’t a speciesdecide to become one sex,especially if reproduction

could be severed fromsexuality? People hadbelievedmenwerebetter,andhad acted on that belief.Perhaps women, given thepower, would have done thesame.

We retreated to a bar whenthe sunny weather grewcooler.Ellissteeredmeawayfrom two taverns with “badelements,” and we found

ourselvesinthedoorwayofadarkenedbarinwhichseveraloldandmiddle-agedmenhadgatheredand twoprettyboysdressed in leather and silkwereplyingtheirtrade.I glanced at the newscreen

as I entered; the pale lettersflickered, tellingmethatBobArnoldi’s last appeal hadfailed and that he would beexecuted at the end of themonth.Thiswasno surprise;Arnoldihad,afterall,killeda

woman, and was alwaysunder heavy guard. Theletters danced on; thePresident’s wife had givenbirthtoherthirteenthchild,aboy. The President’s bestfriend, a Californiamillionaire, had been at hisside when the announcementwas made; the millionaire’spowercouldbegaugedbythefact thathehadbeenmarriedthree times, and that theprolific First Lady had been

oneoftheformerwives.EllisandIgotdrinksat the

bar. I keptmy distance fromone of the pretty boys, whoscowled at my short, wavyhair and nestled closer to hispatron. We retreated to theshadowsandsatdownatoneof the side tables. Thetabletopwassticky;oldcigarbutts had been planted on agraymound in the ashtray. Isipped my bourbon; Ellis,while on the job, was only

allowedbeer.The men at the bar were

watching the remainingminutes of a football game.Sports of some kind werealways on holo screens inbars, according to Sam; hepreferred the oldpornographic films that weresometimes shown amid warcoverage and an occasionalboys’ choir performance forthe pederasts and the moreculturally inclined. Ellis

looked at the screen andnoted that his team waslosing; I commented on theteam’sweaknesses,asIknewIwasexpectedtodo.Ellis rested his elbows on

the table. “This all youcamefor? Just towalk around andthenhaveadrink?”“That’s it. I’m just waiting

formy car.” I tried to soundnonchalant. “It should befixedsoon.”“Doesn’t seem like enough

reasontohireanescort.”“Come on, Ellis. Guys like

me would have troublewithout escorts, especially ifwe don’t know the territorythatwell.”“True. You don’t look that

strong.” He peered at me alittle too intently. “Still,unless you were looking foraction, or going to placeswith a bad element, orwaitingforthegangstocomeout at night, you could get

along. It’s in your attitude—youhavetolooklikeyoucantake care of yourself. I’veseen guys smaller than you Iwouldn’twanttofight.”“Iliketobesafe.”He watched me, as if

expectingmetosaymore.“Actually, I don’t need an

escort as much as I like tohave a companion—somebody to talk to. I don’tseethatmanypeople.”“It’syourmoney.”

The game had ended andwas being subjected to loudanalysis by the men at thebar; their voices suddenlydied. A man behind mesucked in his breath as theclearvoiceofawomanfilledtheroom.I looked at the holo. Rena

Swanson was reciting thenews, leading with theArnoldi story, following thatwiththeannouncementofthePresident’s new son. Her

aged, wrinkled face hoveredoverus;herkindbrowneyespromised us comfort. Hermotherly presence had madeher program one of themostpopularontheholo.Themenaround me sat silently, facesupturned, worshipping her—the Woman, the Other,someone for whom part ofthemstillyearned.

We got back to Marcello’s

just before dark. As weapproached the door, Ellissuddenly clutched myshoulder. “Wait a minute,Joe.”Ididn’tmoveatfirst;thenI

reached out and carefullypushed his arm away. Myshoulders hurt and a tensionheadache, building all day,had finally taken hold, itsclaws gripping my temples.“Don’ttouchme.”Ihadbeenabout to plead, but caught

myself in time; attitude, asEllis had told me himself,wasimportant.“There’s something about

you.Ican’tfigureyouout.”“Don’ttry.”Ikeptmyvoice

steady. “You wouldn’t wantmetocomplaintoyourboss,wouldyou?Hemightnothireyouagain.Escortshavetobetrusted.”He was very quiet. I

couldn’t see his dark faceclearlyinthefadinglight,but

I could sense that he wasweighing the worth of aconfrontationwithmeagainstthe chance of losing his job.My face was hot, mymouthdry. I had spent too muchtimewithhim,givenhimtoomanychancestonoticesubtlywrong gestures. I continuedto stare directly at him,wonderingifhisgreedwouldwinoutoverpracticality.“Okay,”hesaidat last,and

openedthedoor.

I was charged more than Ihad expected to pay, but didnot argue about the fee. Ipressed a few coins onEllis;he took them while refusingto look at me. He knows, Ithought then; he knows andhe’s letting me go. But Imight have imagined that,seeing kindness where therewasnone.

I took a roundabout route

back to Sam’s, checking tomake sure no one hadfollowedme, then pulled offthe road to change the car’slicense plate, concealing myownundermyshirt.Sam’sstorestoodattheend

of the road, near the foot ofmymountain.Near thestore,a small log cabin had beenbuilt. I had staked my claimto most of the mountain,buying up the land to makesureitremainedundeveloped,

but the outside world wasalreadymovingcloser.Samwas sitting behind the

counter, drumming hisfingers as music blared. Icleared my throat and saidhello.“Joe?”Hiswateryblueeyes

squinted.“You’relate,boy.”“Had to get your car fixed.

Don’t worry—I paid for italready.Thanksforlettingmerent it again.” I counted outmy coins and pressed them

intohisdry,leatheryhand.“Any time, son.” The old

man held up the coins,peering at each one with hisweak eyes. “Don’t look likeyou’llgethome tonight.Youcan use the sofa there—I’llgetyouanightshirt.”“I’ll sleep inmyclothes.” I

gavehimanextracoin.He locked up, hobbled

toward his bedroom door,thenturned.“Getintotownatall?”

“No.” I paused. “Tell mesomething, Sam. You’re oldenough to remember. Whatwas it really like before?” Ihadneveraskedhiminalltheyears I had known him,avoiding intimacy of anykind, but suddenly I wantedtoknow.“I’ll tell you, Joe.” He

leaned against the doorway.“Itwasn’tallthatdifferent.Alittle softer around theedges,maybe, quieter, not asmean,

butitwasn’tallthatdifferent.Men always ran everything.Some say they didn’t, buttheyhadall therealpower—sometimesthey’ddolealittleofitouttothegirls,that’sall.Now we don’t have toanymore.”

I had been climbing up themountain for most of themorning, and had left thetrail, arriving at my decoy

housebeforenoon.EvenSambelieved that thecabin in theclearing was my dwelling. Itriedthedoor,sawthatitwasstilllocked,thencontinuedonmyway.Myhomewasfartherupthe

slope, justoutof sightof thecabin. I approachedmy frontdoor, which was almostinvisibleneartheground;therest of the house wasconcealedunderslabsofrockand piles of deadwood. I

stood still, letting a hiddencamera lens get a good lookatme.Thedoorswungopen.“Thank God you’re back,”

Julia said as she pulled meinsideandclosedthedoor.“Iwas so worried. I thoughtyou’d been caught and theywerecomingforme.”“It’s all right. I had some

troublewithSam’scar,that’sall.”She looked up at me; the

lines around her mouth

deepened. “I wish youwouldn’t go.” I took off thepack loaded with the toolsand supplies unavailable atSam’s store. Julia glanced atthe pack resentfully. “It isn’tworthit.”“You’re probably right.” I

was about to tell her of myown trip into town, butdecidedtowaituntillater.We went into the kitchen.

Herhipswerewideunderherpants; her large breasts

bounced as she walked. Herface was still pretty, evenafter all the years of hiding,herlashesthickandcurly,hermouth delicate. Julia couldnot travel in the world as itwas;noclothing,nodisguise,couldhideher.Itookoffmyjacketandsat

down, taking out my card,andmypapers.Myfatherhadgiven them to me—the falsename,themisleadingaddress,theidentificationofamale—

after I had pleaded for myown life. He had built myhideaway; he had riskedeverything forme. “Give theworldachoice,”hehadsaid,“and women will be theminority,maybeevendieoutcompletely; perhaps we canonly love those likeourselves.” He had lookedhardashesaidit,andthenhehad patted me on the head,sighingasthoughheregrettedthechoice.Maybehehad.He

had chosen to have adaughter,afterall.I remembered his words.

“Whoknows?”hehadasked.“What is it thatmadeus twokinds who have to worktogether toget thenextbatchgoing? Oh, I know aboutevolution, but it didn’t haveto be that way, or any way.It’scurious.”“It can’t last,” Julia said,

and I did not know if shemeant the world, or our

escapefromtheworld.Therewould be noEves in

their Eden, I thought. Thevisit to town had brought itall home to me. We all die,but we go with a convictionabout the future; myextinction would not bemerely personal. Only tracesof the feminine would linger—anoccasionalexpression,aposture,afeeling—intheflat-breasted male form. Lovewould express itself in

fruitless unions, divorcedfrom reproduction; humanaffectionsareflexible.I sat in my home, in my

prison, treasuring the smallfreedom I had, the gift of aman, as it seemed suchfreedomhadalwaysbeen forthose likeme, andwonderedagain if it could have beenotherwise.

Afterwordto“Fears”:

“Fears”isastorythat,asI’vediscovered over the years,seems to lend itself to beingread aloud. This may bepartly because it isn’t a longstory; in an age whenattention spans are growingever shorter, doing a longstory at a reading risksputting what audience stillremains at the reading’s

conclusion to sleep. But Ithink its modest success atreadings is largely becausethe story is written in firstperson,whichmeans that theauthor has only toimpersonate the narrator.Writers with great dramaticgifts can get away withreading a story that requiresmanyvoices,butforthoseofus with less skill and lessconfidence in our abilities,first-person narratives are

safer.Some writers are

uncomfortable doingreadings,orrefusetodothemat all. Others like to readwork in progress, whichseems to me a dangerousundertaking,butthenI’moneof those writers who doesn’tlike to show my work toanyone until I have a finaldraft,orclose to it, andeventhen I pickmy target readerscarefully.Showinga storyor

part of a novel to the editoryou’re working with, or toanother writer whosejudgment you trust, makesmuchmore sense tome thanseeing how an audience ofpeopleyoudon’tknowmightreacttoapieceofwritingthatis still in the fragile state ofbeing in progress andunfinished.Thefeedbackcanthrowyouoff;youhavetobeable to hear your own voiceclearlybeforeyoucanexpect

otherstohearit.“Fears” may also go over

well in readings because theworld it depicts is not anunfamiliar one. Somethinglike it is certainly apossibility, given theincreasing control we areacquiring over humanreproduction. In fact, I’veoften had the feeling thatwe’re already living in thisworld to some degree. Someyears ago, after a reading,

someone asked me whatespecially had inspired thisparticularstory.“SuperBowlSunday,”I toldher,“becauseduring that weekend, wemight aswellbe living in anall-male society,”and I thinkshebelievedme.

THENOVELLARACE

Anyone who wants to be acontenderhastostarttrainingat an early age. Becausecompetitions are always inStandard,myparents insistedthat I speak Standard insteadofourlocaldialect.Icouldn’tuse an autocompositor. Weneverownedadictatoreither.“You’ll only have atypewriter during the race,”

my mother would say.“You’d better get used to itnow.”Ihadfewfriendsasachild.

Youcan’thave friendswhiletraining in writing, or anyother sport for that matter.The other kids plugged in,swallowed RNA doses, orwere hypnotized in order tolearn the skills they wouldneedasadults.Ihadtomasterthe difficult arts of readingandwriting.At times I hated

my typewriter, the endlesssentence-long exercises, andthe juvenile competitions. Ienviedotherkidsandwishedthat I too could rompcarelesslythroughlife.Somepeoplethinkbeingan

athlete keeps you in shape.Everyone should take a fewminuteseachdaytositdownand think. But competitivesports usually damage thebodyandtormentthemind.Achampion is almost always

distortedinsomeway.As I grew older, I noticed

that others simply markedtime. They were goodspectators, consumers, andsocializers, but they went totheir graves withoutattempting anythingextraordinary.Iwantedagoldmedal,honor,andfame.EvenwhenIwantedtoquit,IknewI’dgonetoofartoturnback.

By the time I was sixteen IknewIwasneitherasprinternor a distance runner. Myshort storieswere incompleteand I did not have theendurance for the novelcompetition. Poetry wasbeyond me, although mygrandmother had taken abronze medal in the poetryraceof2024.Iwouldhavetotraininthenovella.My parents wanted me to

train with Phaedon Karath,

who had won four Olympicgold medals before turningprofessional, thusdisqualifying himself fromfurther competition. Karathwas hard on his trainees, butthey did well in contests. Iwould have preferred goingto Lalia Grasso, whosestudentsweredevoted toher.But those accustomed to hergentleways oftenmessed upduring races; they did notdevelop the necessary streak

of cruelty nor the essentialqualityofegotism.Everyone knew about Eli

Shankquist,hermosttalentedtrainee and a three-timePanAmerican gold medalistas well. During the Olympicrace, the only one thatmatters, he became involvedwith the notoriously insecureMaliah Senbok. Touched byhermisery, he spent a lot oftime encouraging her. Andwhat did he get? He didn’t

finish his own novella andSenbok took a bronze. A lotof spectators sympathizedwith Shankquist, but mostwritersthoughthewasafool.None of Karath’s students

would have been in such afix. So I sent off my file offiction and waited longmonths for an answer. Justbefore my seventeenthbirthday, a reply arrived onthe telex. Karath wanted apersonal interview. I left on

theshuttlethenextday.Karathlivedinalargevilla

overlookingtheAdriatic.AsIentered, I looked around thehallway. Several greenbeanbag chairs stood next toheavy Victorian tablescovered with illuminatedmanuscripts. Colorfultapestries depicting minstrelsandscribeshungonthewalls.The servo, a friendly silverball with cylindrical limbs,usheredmetothestudy.

The study was clean andSpartan. To my right, acomputer console stood nexttothewall.Totheleft,alargewindow overlooked the bluesea. Karath sat at his glass-topped desk, typing. Helookedup andmotioned to astraight-backedwoodchair. Isatdown.AsIfidgeted,hegotupand

paced to the window. I hadseenhimonthescreenafewtimesbutinpersonheseemed

shorter. He was wiry, withthick dark hair and a small,hard face. He looked, Ithoughtapprehensively,likeayoung tough, in spite of hisage.Iwaited,tryingtopicturemyself in this house, typingaway, making friends,workshoppingstories,gettingdrunk, having an affair anddoing all the things a writerdoes.Karath turned and paced to

the desk. As he picked up a

folder,which I recognizedasmyfile,hemuttered,“You’reAlenaDorenmatté.”I tried to smile. “That’s

me.”“Whatmakesyouthinkyou

belonghere?”“Iwant the best training in

thenovellaIcanget.”“That’sacrockofshit.You

want to fuck and get drunkand sit around thinkingartistic thoughts andcongratulating yourself on

your sensitivity. You won’tsweat blood over atypewriter. You want to becoddled.”Hethrewmyfileacrossthe

desk. It landed on the floorwith a plop. I picked it up,clutchingittomychest.“Let me fill you in,

Dorenmatté. There’s nothingbut cow pies in that file.Understand?Idon’tthinkyoucouldwinalocal.”“I won a local last year, I

placedfirst intheBosWash.”He couldn’t have reviewedmy citations very carefully.“Why’d you ask me hereanyway? You could haveinsultedmeovertherelay.”“Maybe the truth wouldn’t

sinkinovertherelay.IliketosaywhatI thinkfacetoface.You’re not a writer. Yourstoriesarenothingbutclichésand adolescent tragedy. Youcan’t plot and you can’tcreate characters. You have

nothingtosay.You’dmakeafool of yourself in Olympiccompetition.Cowpies, that’swhatyouwrite.Gohomeandlearnhowtosocializesoyoudon’truinyourlife.”My face was burning. “I

don’t know why anybodytrains with you. If the othertrainers were that mean, noonewouldeverwriteagain.”He flew at me, seized the

file, and tore it in half,scattering papers over the

floor. Terrified, I shrankback.“Letmetellyousomething,

Dorenmatté.Awriterdoesn’tgive up. He takespunishment, listens tocriticism, and keeps writing.If he doesn’t make it, it’sbecausehewasn’tanygood.Idon’t run a nursery, I trainwriters.Nowgetoutofhere.Ihaveworktodo.”I stood up, realizing that I

couldn’t respond without

bursting into tears. Graspingatmylastthreadsofdignity,Iturnedandwalkedslowlyoutoftheroom.

I could have applied toanother trainer. Instead Imopedformonths.Atlastmyfather issued an ultimatum: Iwould have to move to adormitory and learn tosocialize or enter acompetition.

Even my parents weredeserting me. I moved outand rented an apartment inMontreal. I stayed inside forweeks, unable to move,barelyabletoeat.OnenightItried to hang myself, but Icouldnevertieknotsproperlyand only fell to the floor,acquiring a nasty bruise onmy thigh. Fate had givenmeanotherchance.I had forgotten that the

PanAmerican Games were

being held in Montreal thatyear. Somehow, even in myhopelessstate, theydrewme.I found myself entering thequalifying meet inparagraphs. I lugged mytypewritertotheamphitheaterandsatwithathousandothersat desks under hot lightswhilethespectatorscameandwent, cheering for theirfavorites. Several writersmade use of the always-popular “creative anguish”

ploy,slappingtheirforeheadsin frustration while throwingaway wads of paper. RamonHogarth, winner of theWestCoast local, danced aroundhis desk after completingeach sentence.My style wasstandard. I smoked heavilyand gulped coffee whileslouching over my machine.Occasionally I clutched mygut in agony, drawing someapplause.Iqualifiedforthesemifinals

and was given a small roomfilled with monitoringdevices. The judges, ofcourse, had to watch forcheating, and spectators alloverthehemispherewouldbeviewingus.Itriedtopreservemy poise at the typewriter,but gradually I forgoteverything except mynovella. Iwrote and rewrote,rarelytakingbreaks,knowingthat I was up against trainedcontenders. Whenever I

became discouraged, Iremembered the mockingvoiceofPhaedonKarath.I made it to the finals. I

recall that I envied the short-storywriters,whohadafour-month deadline, and pitiedthe novelists, who had tosuffer for a year. I canrememberthetimeswhenmywordsflowedfreely,buttherewere moments when I wasready to disqualify myself. Iagonized while awaiting the

decision and wondered if Icouldeverfaceanotherrace.I placed sixth. Delighted, I

got drunk and daringly sentoffmy sixth-place novella toPhaedonKarath.A few dayslater, his reply appeared onmy telex:STILLCOWPIESBUT IMPROVEMENTSTOP COME TO ITALYSTOP SEE IF YOU CANTAKE REAL WORKOUTSTOP.

At thevilla Ihad toworkonsentencesformonthsbeforeIwas allowed to go on toparagraphs. Karath insistedon extensive rewriting,although constant rewritingcould kill you off incompetition as easily assloppy unreworked firstdrafts. He rarely praisedanyone.We workshopped a lot,

tearing each other’s work

apart. Reina Takake, a smallgolden-skinned woman whobecame my closest friend,used to runfromtheroomintears.Themoreshecried,themore Karath picked on her.We would spend hourstogetherplanning tortures forhim and occasionallywritingabout the tortures in vividdetail.At last Reina packed and

left, saying good-bye to noone. Karath told us of her

departureduringaworkshop,watching us with his grayeyes as he said that Reinacouldn’t cut it, that she hadno talent, and that it wasuseless to waste time onsomeone who couldn’t takecriticism.Ihatedhimforthat.Istood

upand screamed that hewasa petty tyrant and a sadist. Itold him he had nounderstandingofgentlesouls.Isaidafewotherthings.

He waited until I finished.Then he looked around theroom and said, “The rest ofyou can continue.Dorenmatte,stepoutside.”Trembling, I followed him

out.Heledmedownthehalland stopped in front of myroom.Heturned,grabbedmeby the arms, and shoved meinside.Istumbledandalmostfell.“Stay in there,” he said.

“You’renotcomingoutuntil

you finish a specificassignment.”“What assignment?” I

asked,puzzled.“The novella you’re going

to write, and rewrite ifnecessary.You’llwriteaboutTakake and about me if youlike. Do it any way youplease, butyouhave towriteabout Takake. Now get towork.”He slammed the door

quickly. I heard him turn the

lock. I screamed, bellowed,andcurseduntilIwashoarse.Karathdidnotrespond.

I spent a few hours in futileweeping and a few days inplotting an escape.Foodwasbrought to me, occasionallywith wine; the upper doorpanel would open and theamiable servo would lowerthe food into my room. Atfirst I refused it but after a

fewdaysIwastoohungrytoresist.IsoonrealizedI’dneverget

out of my windowless roomuntil I wrote the novella. Itookabath,thenbitterlywentto work. At first I rambled,notingeverypassingthought,incorporating some of theparagraphs Reina and I hadwritten about torturingKarath.But soon a particularplot suggested itself. Ioutlined the story and began

again.I worked at least a month,

maybe more, before I had adraft to show Karath. Oddlyenough, I could not sustainmyangerathimnormygriefat Reina’s departure. Iunderstood what hadhappenedandwhatIhadfelt,but these events and feelingswere simply material to beshapedandstructured.Igavemyfinaldraft to the

servo andwaited.At last the

dooropened.ImademywaydownstairstoKarath’sstudy.He sat behind his desk

perusing my novella. Icleared my throat. His coldeyes surveyedmeashe said,“It isn’t bad, Dorenmatté. Itwouldn’t make it in a race,buttheremightbesomehopefor you.”As I basked in thishigh praise, he threw themanuscript at me. “Now goback to work and clean upsomeofyoursentences.”

Ayear laterI tookthegoldmedal in the PanAmericanGames.

But it was Olympic gold Iwanted, the high point for achampion. There would bepublicity, perhaps othercompetitions if my healthheld out. But contests werefor the young. Eventually Iwould become a trainer orsign contracts with the

entertainment industry; gold-medal winners can get a lotfor senso plots or dreamconstruction.Maybenovelistscan do serialized week-longdreams and short-storywriters are better atcommercials, but you can’tbeat a novella writer for anevening’s sustainedentertainment. Sincepracticallynoonereadsnow,except of course the critics,most of them failed writers

who write comments on ourwork for one another andserve as judges duringcompetitions, there isn’tmuchelseachampioncandowhen the contest years areover.TheOlympics!Karath rode

us mercilessly in preparationfor them. He presentedcountless distractions: robotsoutside with jackhammers,emotional crises, dirty tricksmeant to disorient us,

impossibledeadlines.Two years before the

Games,whichliketheancientOlympicsareheldonlyeveryfour years, I had to enterpreliminaries. I got throughthemeasily.ThenightbeforeI left for Rome, Karath andthe others workshopped astory of mine and tore it toshreds. I recall the hatred Isawinthefacesofmyfellowtrainees. None had qualifiedthis time, although all had

wonlocalsorregionals.Theywould undoubtedly gossipmaliciouslyaboutmewhen Ileft and point out to eachother how inferior my workreallywas.I arrived in Rome the day

before the openingceremonies. The part of theOlympicVillagesetasideforwriterswasascenicspot.Thesmall stone houses weresurrounded on three sides byflower gardens and wooded

areas. Below us lay all ofRome; the dome of St.Peter’s, the crowded streets,the teeming arcologies. Iwantedtoexploreitall,butIhad to start sizing up thecompetition.I sought out Jules

Pepperman, who had beenassignedahousenearmine.Ihad met him at thePanAmerican Games. Juleswas tied into the grapevineand always volunteered

informationreadily.Hewasatallslenderfellow

with an open, friendlypersonality and a habit oftrying to write excessivelyambitious works duringcompetition, a practice Iregardedas courtingdisaster.Ithadmessedhimupbefore,but it had also won him agold in the Anglo-AmericanGames and a silver in thePENStakes.Icouldn’taffordtoignorehim.

His house smelled of herbtea and patent medicines.Jules had arrived with everymedication the judges wouldallow. I wondered how heenduredcompetition,withhismigraines and stomachailments.Butendureithedid,while complaining loudlyabouthishealthtoeveryone.Isatinhiskitchenwhilehe

poured tea. “Did you hear,Alena?I’mreadytogohome,I’m sick of working all the

time, the prelims almostwiped me out. There’s thismigraineIcan’tgetridofandthe judges won’t let me taketheonlythingthathelps.Andwhen I heard … you wanthoneyinthat?”“Sure.”Hedroppedadollop

in my tea. “What did youhear?”“Ansoni. He’s so brilliant

andI’msodumb.Ican’ttakeanymore.”“WhataboutAnsoni?”

“He’shere.He’scompeting.Haven’tyouheard?Youmusthave been living in a cave.He’scompeting.Innovella.”“Shit,” I said. “What’s the

matterwithhim?Hemustbealmost sixty. Isn’t heineligible?”“No. Don’t you keep up

with anything? He neverworkedprofessionallyandhewasn’tatrainer.”I tried to digest this

unsavory morsel. I hadn’t

even known that MichaelAnsoni was still among theliving. He had taken a goldmedal in short-storycompetition long ago andgone on to win a gold eightyears later in novella, theonly writer to changecategories successfully. Icouldn’t even remember allhisotherawards.“I can’t beat him,” Jules

wailed.“Ishouldhavebeenaprogrammer.Allthatworkto

gethere,andnowthis.”Ihad tocalmJulesdown. I

didn’t likehiswriting,whichwasabit dense formy taste,but I liked him. “Listen,” Isaid,“Ansoni’sold.Hemightfold up at his age. Maybehe’lldieandbedisqualified.”“Don’tsaythat.”“Iwouldn’t be sorry.Well,

maybe I would. Who elselooksgood?”“Nionus Gorff.” Gorff was

always masked; no one had

ever seen his face. He hadquiteacultishfollowing.“Naah,”Iresponded.“Gorff

hates publicity too much,he’ll be miserable in a bigracelikethis.”“There’sJanWolowski.But

I don’t think he can beatAnsoni.”“Wolowski’s too

heavyhanded. He might aswelldopropaganda.”“There’s Arnold

Dankmeyer.”

I was worried aboutDankmeyer myself. He waspopular with the judges,althoughthatmightnotmeanmuch. APOLLO, theOlympic computer, actuallypicked the winners, but thejudges’ assessmentswere fedinandconsideredinthefinaldecisions. No one could besure how much weight theycarried.AndDankmeyerwasappealinglyfacile.Buthewasoften distracted by his

admirers, who followed himeverywhereandevenlivedinhis house during races. Hemightfold.“Anyway,” I said, “you

can’t worry about it now.” Iwas a bit insulted that Juleswasn’tworriedaboutme.“I know. But the judges

don’t like me, they neverhave.”“Well, they don’t like me

either.” I had, in accordancewith Karath’s advice,

cultivated a public imagewith which to impress thejudges.Mystockintradewasunobtrusiveness and self-doubt.IwouldhavepreferredbeingacolorfulcharacterlikeKarath, but I could neverhave carried that off. Beingquiet might not win manypoints,buttherewasalwaysachancethejudgeswouldreactunfavorablytohistrionicsandgivepointstoashywriter.“At least they don’t hate

you,”Julesmumbled.“Ineedavacation.Ican’ttakeit.”“You’re a champion, act

likeone,” I said loftily. Igotup and made my departure,wanting to rest up for theopeningceremonies.

We looked terrific in thestadium, holding our quillpens, clothed in azurejumpsuits with the flags ofourcountriesoverourchests.

The only ones who lookedbetter were theastrophysicists, who woreblack silk jumpsuits studdedwith rhinestoneconstellations. They wereonly there for the openingceremonies; their contestswould be held on theMoon.At any rate, the sciencegames didn’t draw much ofan audience. Hardly anyoneknewenoughtofollowthem.And mathematicians—they

were dressed in black robesand held slates and chalk—were ignored, even if theywere gold medalists. Thesocial sciences drew thecrowds, probably becauseanyone could, in a way, feelhewasparticipating in them.But we writers didn’t do sobadly. No one read what wewrote, but a lot of peopleenjoyed our public displays.At least one writer was suretocrackupbeforetheGames

were over, and occasionallytherewasasuicide.We marched around, the

flamewaslit,andIsmiledatJules. At least we werecontenders. No one couldtakethataway.

The race began. I workedmethodically, meaning that Iusedmyownmethod.Duringthe first two weeks I wrotenothing.IsawalotofRome.

A wisp of an idea wasforming in my mind, but Iwasn’treadytoworkonit.Juleswasslavingaway.He

wouldcreepalongslowlyandfinish a draft, then take aweek off during which hewould feel guilty about notworking.Hehad to rewrite alot. “Otherwise,” he had toldme, “I’d beincomprehensible.”During thesecondmonth, I

met Jan Wolowski while

taking a walk. He was toointense formy taste.Hewasalways serious, even atparties, and he had notolerance for the foibles ofwriters.Hewasalsodogmaticand snobbish. But he wascompetition.I said hello and we

continued walking together.“How are you doing?” Iasked, not really wanting toknow.“Still taking notes and

workingoutmyplot.”“Ihatemakingnotes. I like

towrite it as it comes.But Idon’thaveachanceanyway.”That last linewaspartofmyself-depreciation routine, butonsomelevelIbelievedit.IfI really thought I was good,some part of me was sure, Iwouldlose.“I wrote a good paragraph

this morning,” he said. “Ihave my notebook with me.Wanttohearit?”

“No.” Wolowski liked toread to other competitors. Itwould bore, exasperate, ordemoralizethem.Hereadmehis paragraph anyway.Unfortunately,itwasgood.We passed Dankmeyer’s

house. Hewas holding courtat a picnic table with hisadmirers, some fettucini, andplenty of wine. Dankmeyercould turn out a novella in aweek,sohewasabletospendmost of his time garnering

publicity.“Did you ever meet Lee

Huong?”Wolowski asked asI waved to Dankmeyer,hatinghiscourtier’sguts.“No.”“You should. She may be

thebestwriterhere.”“I never heard of her.

What’sshewon?”“Nothing, except a bronze

in the Sino-Soviet Gamesyears ago. She’s close toforty.”

“Then she can’t be thatgreat. At that age, she oughttoquit.”WepassedAnsoni’shouse. All the shutters wereclosed. I had heard he sleptduringthedayandworkedatnight.“I mean,” Wolowski

continued,“thatshe’sthebestwriter. If people still read,they’dreadher.I’vereadherbest stuff and it wasn’t whatshewroteincontests.”We stopped by a cafe and

satdownataroadsidetable.Isignaledtoaservoforabeer.The man was trying todisorient me. I knew thesetricks. “Better thanAnsoni?”Iasked.“Betterthanhim.”“Bullshit. I don’t believe

it.” I looked around and sawsome spectators. Theygrinned and waved. A boyshouted, “Go get it,Dorenmatté!” It was nice tohaveadmirers.

I spoke to Lee Huong onlyonce, two months before theendofourrace,atapartyfortheshort-storymedalists.Thepartywasheldinanold

villa. The dining room wasfilled with long tablescovered with platters ofcaviar, various fruits,suckling pigs, standing ribroasts, and bowls of pasta. Isettledonacouchanddugin.

Across from me, Jules wasflirting with the silvermedalist in short stories, abuxomred-hairedwoman.Benjamin MacStiofain sat

next to me and grimlydevoured a pear. “TheseOlympics are disgusting,” hemuttered. “What’s the use?We come here, we agonize,we break our hearts, thensomeonewinsandeverybodyforgets about it. I hate it all.This ismy last competition.”

MacStiofain always saideverymeetwashislast.“I heard Dankmeyer

finishedhisnovellaalready.”MacStiofain’s mustache

twitched. “Did you have totellme that?”He got up andwanderedawaymorosely.ThenIsawLeeHuong.She

drifted past, dressed in whatappearedtobewhitepajamas.Her small light-brown facewas composed; her almondeyes surveyed the room

benevolently. It was eerie.This late in the race awritermight be depressed, anxious,fatalistic, or hysterical, butnotcalm.Ithadtobeatactic.Shenodded tome, then sat

downonthecouch.Inoddedback. “Is this your firstOlympiccontest?”sheasked.Isaiditwas.“Itmeanslittle.”“You’re absolutely right,” I

replied.“Itmeansnothing…ifyou’realoser.”Iwasbeing

crude. But Lee Huong onlysmiled as she got up andwalked away. Maybe sheknew something I didn’tknow.I remembered what

Wolowski had said. What ifhewasrightaboutHuong?Ifshewasthebest,itmeantthatinferior writers defeated herregularly. And if that wastrue, it might mean thatinferior writers beat betterones in all contests.

MacStiofain, I recalleduncomfortably, believed thatAPOLLOpicked thewinnersat random, although thehumanjudgesmightgiveyouan edge. The Olympiccommittee had denied this,but we all knew thatMacStiofain’s sister hadtaken a gold in cybernetics.She might have told himsomething.I had lost my appetite

duringtheseruminations,soI

got up and made a show ofleaving, waving to Jules andtellinghimthatIwasheadingback to work. This obviousmaneuver almost alwayssucceeded in making thewriters who remained feelguilty.Karath’sclassicmove,bringing his typewriter toparties and working in themidst of them, was one Igreatly admired but couldnever emulate withconviction.

On my way back, I sawEffie Mae Hublinger sittingon a stone wall with a fewspectators. Her game wasbeing jus’ folks, nothin’special ’bout me, jes’throwin’ the ol’ wordsaround,butatheartAh’mjes’a li’l ol’ socializes Anyonewho believed that about awriter deserved to be fooled,orworseyet,put intoastoryasacharacter.

The last month waspressurized. Anyone whocould spare the time wasplaying dirty tricks.Wolowski, who admittedlywas erudite, lectured toanyonehesawonthesubjectof our ignorance and lack ofreal ability. This upset a fewwriters, but only encouragedJules, for some strangereason.MacStiofainfinallycracked.

In a show of poorsportsmanship, he duked itout with a novelist. The dayafter that brawl, he wasdisqualified for takingunauthorizeddrugs.Theyhadtodraghimaway.

The robopols put him in astrait-jacket while hescreamed that someone hadplanted the drugs, but weknewthatwasn’ttrue.Atanyrate, we all calmed down abit, since a formidable

contenderwasnowoutoftherace.Lee Huong kept her

equilibrium.ThatdroveEffieMaeHublingercrazy.Withafew of her friends, shecampedoutonHuong’sfrontstepforthreedays,creatingaruckus. This infantile tacticonly lost Hublinger time shecouldhave spentonherownnovella.Someone visited Jules and

managed to swipe his

medicines, unnoticed by themonitors. Even Jules, angryashewas,hadtoadmiresuchskill and daring. But it wasDankmeyer who created aclassicnewploy.Twoweeksbeforetheendofcompetitionhehandedinhisnovella.Jules, hysterical by then,

relayed this news to me. Hewas having trouble with hisending. He stomped aroundmyworkroom,talkedhimselfinto utter panic, talked

himself out of it, then wentback to his house. EvenAnsoni had been thrown offbalance by that trick.Everyone had always waitedfor thedeadline, revisingandpolishing. Dankmeyer wouldbefamous.Hetoppedoffhisstuntwithanervouscollapse,which would help with thejudges.Thedaybeforethedeadline,

Rigel Jehan left withoutfinishinghisnovellaandwas

disqualified. Poor Rigel, Ithought, glad he was gone.He could never finishanything during the bigcontests.And then the deadline

arrived. We handed in ourmanuscripts and carefullyavoided each other whileawaitingjudgment.IwentonadrunkinRome.Icametoinanalleywithalargebumponmy head, no money, and ahangover. I suppose it’s all

gristforthemill.

The closing ceremonieswereheld two years after the startof the Games. It took thatlong for someof the races tobe completed. Theeconomists, in gold lame,sashayed around the arena,drawing a few cheers. Theanthropologists topped them,weaving in and out, thendancing a nifty two-step in

their robes and feathers. Iwore my bronze medalproudlyas I struttedwith theothers, our quill pens heldhigh.Therewas, after all, noshame in being defeated byAnsoni, although it irkedmethatDankmeyerhadtakenthesilver. He had recoverednicely from his nervousbreakdown and was castingfriendly glances at me withhis sensitive brown eyes. Iignoredhim.

I returned to Karath’s villaafter that. He congratulatedmebutgotdowntoessentialsquickly. I had only a coupleofmonthstotrainforthenextOlympicprelims.Then disaster struck. I had

no words left. At first Ithought it was onlyexhaustion. I grew listless. Iput the cover over mytypewriter, then hid it undermydesk,whereitreproachedme silently. The other

traineeswhispered aboutme.Ihadtofacethetruth:Ihadawriter’s block. Imight neverwrite again. No one everdiscussed writer’s block,consideringitindelicate,butIknewothershadgonemute.Karath was kind and

sympathetic, although heknew I could not remain atthe villa; he had to worryabout contagion. Hewas toocourteoustoaskmetoleave.I left by myself, one cold

cloudymorning, notwantingtoseetheothertraineesgloat,and took a shuttle to NewZealand.

Blockedandmiserable,Ishutmyself off from all news. Ireceived a few kind notes,which I did not answer;nothingisworsethanthepityof other writers. Yet even inthat state I had to view thenextOlympics.

ReinaTakaketookthegold;Ifoundoutshehadgonebackto Karath after I left. Iwatchedherreceiveit,hatingher, hating my former bestfriend more than I had everhatedanyone.That did it. Hate and envy

alwaysdo.Somethingjoggedloose in my brain and Istarted writing again. Let’sface it, I’m not fit foranything else. I only hope Ican be a contender once

more.

Afterwordto“TheNovella

Race”:It probably won’t besurprising to be told that theinspiration for “The NovellaRace” grew out of mycompulsive viewing ofcertain sports events—specifically, the 1976Olympic Games, with itslegendaryduelforsupremacyin women’s gymnastics

between gold medalist OlgaKorbut and her brilliantyoungupcoming rival,NadiaComaneci. It seemed naturalto envision writers engagingin such a competition, andevenmorenaturaltomodelafew of the competitors onwriters I knew—greatlyalteredandheavilydisguised,needless to say, in thesefictionalportraits.What is so appealing about

sports, about watching

athletesofanykindatthetopof their game, is seeinghumanexcellenceondisplay,seeing people who achievetheirskillsand theirvictoriesonlyatgreatcostandthroughanalmostinhumandiscipline,yet who also love what theydo. At least that should bewhat is appealing, althoughthere is also the moredegraded pleasure of thespectacle, the crass but oftenriveting display of people

behaving badly whilecompeting,actingoutinwaysthat would have beenconsidered such badsportsmanship in simplertimes that the miscreantsmighthavebeenbannedfromcompetition, along with theequally compelling storiesabout the latestmultimillion-dollarcontractsandthelateststring of commercialendorsements. Much ofprofessional sport seems as

muchaboutthehumandrama— the cash, the rivalries, thegrudges, and the tantrums—as anything else; it’s as ifwe’ve forgotten whatathleticsweresupposedtobeabout.Ofcoursethesamecouldbe

said about writing andwriters.

COLLECTORS

Alberto had bypassedOrleans, where the trafficheading toward that citywasas heavy as it had beenaround Paris. People hadflooded into Paris after theannouncement, maybebecause so much of Frenchlifehadalwaysbeencenteredthere. Whatever happenednow, a lot of people

obviously wanted to be inPariswhenitdid.To have so many coming

into Paris hadmade it easierfor us to leave. The traffichad been heavy on the roadsleadingtothecity,butalmostnonexistent on the lanesgoing out. Alberto had filledthetankofhisFiatrightafterour arrival and hadn’t driventhe car since, so we hadenoughgas.Theconciergeatthehotelhadletuscheckout

without paying, maybebecausebythentheexchangerates were fluctuating fromonehourtothenextandtherewasnowayofknowinghowmuchanycurrencywouldbeworthintime.Weevenhadabag of canned food andbottled water. Making myway back to the hotel, I hadbeen caught in a crowd oflooters, and somebody hadthrustacanvasbagoffoodatme.Theownersof the shops

and stores didn’t seem tomind the looting. By then,some of them were standingby the doors of theirestablishments shouting“Prenez-en”and“Prenez-lestous,” telling people to helpthemselves to everythinginside.We left the main highway,

then had to detour around asmall town. The cobblestonestreets leading into the townwere blocked by vans. The

traffic was thinning rapidly.Soonourswas theonlycar Icouldseeontheroad.We followed the Loire

along a two-lane highwaynearly as straight as the lineonagraph.Ontheothersideof the river, I spotted thedistinctive dome and stacksofanuclearpowerplant.“I hope they’ve shut that

thingdown,”Isaid.Alberto was silent as he

drove over a bridge and past

the plant, then turned right.Hehadn’tsaidanythingsinceleavingParis.After droppingoff my bag of food in ourroom,Ihadfoundhiminthehotel bar, sitting with amiddle-agedCanadiancoupleand a young woman in aUniversity of Minnesotasweatshirt. The middle-agedman was saying, “We wereon our second honeymoon.”Theyoungwomansaid,“Thiswasmy first trip toEurope.”

Alberto sighed, then said,“We were going to look atsome of the chateaux alongtheLoirebeforestartingbackto Italy.” It struck me thenthat everyone was using thepast tense, as if their earlierliveswereover.I had let Alberto decide

what to do. He seemed tothinkthattheplacetobewasoutside the major cities.Whateverhappenednowwaslikelytoaffectthecitiesfirst,

so itwas better to get out ofParis and then considerwhatto do next. His thinking hadseemed reasonable to mewhen we were sitting in ourroom,withtheTVtunedintoCNN International for thelatest news—or non-news—and the sounds of cars,honking horns, and tollingbells outside growing louderby theminute.Now Iwasn’tso sure. Alberto had decidedto head toward the Loire

Valley because that waswhere we had originallyplanned to go. I wasbeginning to think that hesimply didn’t know what todo, that he preferred topretend that there was somepurpose to his actions ratherthansitaroundinourroomorthe hotel bar speculatingaboutwhatmighthappenandfreaking himself out.Probably all the peoplecrowdingintoParisandother

citiesdidn’tknowwhattodo,either. Maybe they justwantedtobeinacrowdwhiletheywaitedinsteadofgettingterrifiedallalonesomewhere.Albertoturnedontoanother

road.Ahighstonewallatourleftsurroundedforested land.I gazed absently at the maponmylap,onwhichtheroadswerenotveryclearlymarked,then thrust it into the glovecompartment.“Wherearewenow?”Iasked.

“Near Chambord,” hereplied, speaking at last.“You remember, Lois—weweregoingtostoptherefirst.It is considered one of themost spectacular of thechâteaux, perhaps thegrandest.ItwastheprojectofFrançoistheFirst—”“I know all of that,” I

muttered, wondering why hewasmentioningitnow.“—whowasagreatadmirer

of Renaissance art,

particularly Italian art.Leonardo da Vinci has beencredited with drawing upsome of the plans forChambord.”Alberto soundedlikeatourguide.Hearinghimspeak in such a flat, matter-of-factmannermademeevenmoreapprehensive.Irealizedthenthathewasprobablyjusttryingtodistracthimselffromany fears he might beharboring with this pretenseof normality. By then, I was

wishingthatwehadstayedinParis.My lord and master. I had

called Alberto that in jestduring the early days of ourrelationship, even though Iwas never sure if he caughtmysarcasmorsensedthatthephrase was my little joke.Nowthosetermsseemedonlytoo accurate. He was alwaysin charge; there was neverany doubt of that. He didn’thave to go out of hisway to

demonstrate it, either; hisdominance was simplyassumed,withoutquestion.Alot of American men mightmake noises about being incontrol, but in practicemanyofthemwerewillingtosharesome authority, even cedesome of their traditionalterritory.Therewasanalmostappealing insecurity inAmerican men that I hadn’tproperly appreciated beforegetting involved with

Alberto, whose behaviorseemedpartofanearlierage.“Wecouldtrytodriveback

toRome,”Isaid.“No.It’smuchtoofar.The

hotelsalongthewaymightbefull by now, with no one toattend to anyone, and theservice stationswillprobablybe closed.” Then his voicegotmore strained, his accentthicker. “Would youwant topassyourtimenowrunningaservicestationorattendingto

hotelguests?”“Iguessnot.” Ididn’twant

to pass the time looking atchateaux, either, trying topretend everything was stillnormal. There wasn’t evenany way at the moment tofind outwhatwas happeningintherestoftheworld,sinceAlberto’s car radio had diedduringthedrivefromLyontoParis. Iwas about to suggestthatweheadback toOrléansand take our chances there

whentheskysuddenlyturnedwhite.Alberto hit the brakes. I

covered my face with myhands, thinking wildly oflaser beams and advancedweapons, then peeredbetweenmy fingers.The skywasstillwhite;thestonewallalongtheroadrippled,asifIwere seeing it throughwater,and the forest beyond wasblackunderthepiercinglight.I don’t know how long it

lasted.Therewasnosoundofexplosions, no heat, nofirestorms, quakes, or othersignsof destruction, only thebright whiteness of the skyandtheblacknessofthetreeson the other side of theripplingwall.Iglancedtomyright and saw that the sky tothe west was still blue, theflatlandgreen.Iturnedback.The white light vanishedabruptly; the black leaves ofthe trees on theother sideof

the wall were once againgreen.Alberto crossed himself.

Wesat thereforawhile,andthenhestartedthecaragain.They were scanning us, I

thought. They would satisfytheir curiosity about us andthengoontheirway.Iwassobusytryingtoreassuremyselfthat we were through a gateand on the road leading toChambord’s parking lot andvisitors’ entrance before I

noticed our surroundingsagain.Alberto sucked in his

breath;Ilookedup.ThatwaswhenIsawthetrafficahead.Cars and buses were

speeding straight at us alongbothlanesof theroad.Hornsbeeped and wailed, warningus to get out of the way.Alberto slowed, then quicklydrove onto the shoulder andintothegrass.Vehiclesracedpast us, heading toward the

gate. The cars sped ahead ofthebuses,buteven thebuseswerebarrelingalong,pebblesflying from under theirwheels.Istaredafter themuntil the

long procession was out ofsight.“Ifthey’reallinsuchahurry to get out of here,” Isaid, “maybe we’d betterfollowthem.”Alberto restedhishandson

thewheel.“Towhere?”“Anywhere.”

“Andwhatwillwedowhenwe run out of gasoline?Staying here is as reasonableas going somewhere else.Think,Lois—wherecouldwebecompletelysafenow?”Iwassilent.“And I must confess to

being curious about why allthose people were drivingawaysorapidly.”Of course, I thought.

Albertowouldneveradmittobeingafraidofanything,even

when there was good reasontobefearful.ButIdidn’tfeellike arguing with him, andeverything looked peacefulnow. In the distance, palestone towers seemed to befloating against the sky, amagicalplaceapart fromthisworld; that had to be thechateau.Maybeallthepeoplein the cars and buses hadsimply panicked after seeingtheskybrighten.Theywouldcomebackwhentheycameto

theirsenses.Albertodrovebackontothe

road. The parking lot wasemptywhenwereachedit.Sowere the walkways near thesouvenir shops and cafés ofthetinytown.Albertoparkednear an ice-cream counter.We got out and wanderedalong the street in thedirectionofthechâteau.Beyondtherowsoftreesup

ahead, the ticket booth wasempty, itsdooropen. I could

see the chateau clearly now.Chambordloomedoveravastplain of cropped grass. Thepale stone facade wascrownedbyfourlargetowersand several smaller towersandturrets.Oneslendertowertoppedbyadome,tallerthantheothers,stoodinthecenter.It was hard to accept thestructure’s size, its hugeness;only a megalomaniac couldhave built such a castle. ButChambord’s massive- ness

and solidity were alsoreassuring.Wewouldbesafehere after all, I told myself.Thechâteauwouldprotectus.The skywasgrowinggray,

the autumn air colder. Avoice behind me shouted,“Hey!”I spun around.A tall lanky

white-hairedmanstood inanopen doorway. “Hey!” theman called out again. “YouspeakEnglish?Anglais?”“Yes,” Alberto replied, “I

do.”“Everybody just took off—

didn’tevenwaitforus.”The stranger had a flat

Midwestern accent andlooked harmless enough.Alberto strode toward him; Ifollowed. “We saw them,”Albertosaid.“Theyranusofftheroad.”“Scared, that’s what they

were.Wewerewalkingtothecastle there, ahead of all theothers on our bus. Couldn’t

get back in time.” The manmotioned with one hand.“Bettercomeinside.”We entered the building.

Wooden tables and chairsstood against onewall; a barranalongtheothersideoftheroom. A stockywomanwithshort curly gray hair wasperchedononeof the stools.Like the man, she waswearing a windbreaker,sweatshirt, loose jeans, andathleticshoes.

“You’reAmericans,” I saidaswesatdown.“SoamI.”“Well, I’ll be,” the man

said. “You don’t lookAmerican.”“I’vebeenlivinginItaly.”I

wonderedifIwouldeverseemyowncountryagain.Alberto introduced us. The

couple’snames, they toldus,wereEdnaandJimHaworth,andtheycamefromasuburbofKansasCity.Jimhadbeenin France with the army

towardtheendofWorldWarII and had brought his wifethere on a trip with severalother retired people, all ofwhomhadapparentlyfledonone of the buses with theirtourguide.“Didn’t even wait for us,”

Edna Haworth said, shakingherhead.“Just took off like a bat

outta hell,” Jim Haworthmuttered,“rightafterthelightchanged and the air got all

thick.Heardthissound,likeabig giant heart beating, andbythenmyhairwasstandingup. It went on and on, thatsoundandtheripplingairandall,tillIliketobesick.Folkswererunningoutofthecastlethere,tryingtomakeittotheparking lot—damn neartrampled us. Edna washanging onto my arm like alittlekid,andthenwestartedfor the bus, but by the timewe got to here, they were

alreadydrivingoff.”“We saw something

strange,” I said, “The skygoingwhite,and—”“Didn’t just see it, young

lady.Feltit,rightinmyguts.I was scared. Edna felt it,too.”“We didn’t feel anything

likethat,”Isaid.“It’s them.” Edna gestured

toward the ceiling. “Has tobe.”Shedidn’thavetosaywhat

she meant. I thought of howquickly everything hadchanged in just three days.Three days ago, Iwas tryingto figure out how to tellAlberto Iwas going to leavehim and go back to NewYork. Three days ago,nobody had even suspectedthatvisitors fromouterspaceweresuddenlygoingtoshowup. A physicist interviewedon CNN had said somethingabout the alien vessel

stitching its way throughspacetime,whichwashiswayof trying to explain how ithad appeared near Earth soabruptly, without anywarning.Thealienshadcomeherein

asphericalshipthesizeofanasteroid—if that alien globecould be called a ship. Theyhad sent no messages, noenvoys, no signs of hostileintent, no signals, nogreetingsatall.TheRussians

had two cosmonauts in orbit,and the United States hadbegunaspaceshuttlemissionseveral days early, replacingthe scheduled crew withmembersofthearmedforces;theynowhadsomefootageofthe vessel from a distance,and the aliens still had notreacted. No one was evensure if there were any aliensinside the ship; one theorywasthatithousedanartificialintelligence,acomputermind

ofsorts.Nobodyknewwhyitwas here, or what the aliens—ortheartificialintelligence—wanted.No wonder people were

starting to get unhinged.Anyone could understandmalevolent aliens attackingthe world, or kindly aliensarriving to solve all ourproblems. But this ship wasjust sitting out there, insidetheorbitofthemoon,andwedidn’t know anything more

about it than we had threedays ago. Waiting withoutknowing anything—that wastheworstofit.Alberto took out his

cigarettes, lit one, thenslipped his leather case backinto his pocket. I had longsincegivenupwhathecalledmy puritanical Americanhabitofchidinghimabouthissmoking, and the Haworthsdidn’t object; maybe theywere thinking we had more

important things to worryaboutnow.I noticed the TV over the

bar. “There must be somenews on,” I said.Thatwas asafe bet; there hadn’t beenanything except news on TVever since the alien ship hadappeared. “Wehaven’t heardanythingsinceleavingParis.”“We tried it,” Jim said.

“Set’snotworking.”We sat there for a while. I

supposewewereall thinking

that some of the people whohadleftmightcomeback.Atlast Jimsaid,“Well,whatdowedonow?”

We searched through thesouvenir shops and cafes.ThatwasAlberto’s idea.Thedoors were unlocked, therooms empty; it seemed thateveryone had fled. Edna andJim weren’t surprised; theyremembered how terrified

they had been, how theimpulsetogetawayfromtheterror they had felt hadoverwhelmed them.Occasionally,wetriedoneoftheradiosorTVswefoundinafewofthebuildings, tryingto pick up some news, butnone of them worked. Apower failurecouldn’tbe thecause; the lights were stillworking. Maybe thegovernment had ordered anend to the broadcasts. A

couple ofministers had beenclaiming that severalreporterswereonlyaddingtothe panic with theirspeculations.“Didn’t look like toomany

people were here to beginwith,”EdnasaidassheandIsatdownatoneof the tablesunder the trees lining thewalkway.“Therewouldn’t have been

asmanyatthistimeofyear.”“I know. We wanted to

avoid the big crowds. That’swhywe came inOctober—itwas cheaper, too.” Ednagazed toward Alberto andJim, who were walkingtoward the empty ticketbooth. “Funny. I don’t feelscared at all now. I almostfeelgladtobehere.”I knew what she meant. I

was feeling the same way.Under the circumstances, Ishould have been feelinganxious, jumpy, afraid,

despairing, or depressed, allof which were commonenough mental states for meanyway. Instead, I wasfeelingalmost reassured; thatbotheredme.We got up and joined the

men. Alberto and Jim werestandingbythebooth,staringat the chateau. The sky stilllookedgrayandovercast,butChambord’s pale walls andcupola-topped towers glowedwith a golden light. A few

horses, dwarfed by themassive chateau, weregrazingonthegroomedgrassnearthemoat.“Where’d the horses come

from?”IheardJimask.“They use them for the

carriage rides,”Edna replied.“That’s what our guide said,remember? Patrick wastelling us about howmost ofthe woods around this castleis a big game park wheretourists aren’t allowed, and

then he said that the horses—”“Someone is with them,”

Alberto said. I squinted andglimpsed a tiny human formbefore it disappeared aroundthe far tower. “Perhaps weshouldinvestigate.”I was thinking that we

should leave, but the chateaudrew me. It was strange tofeelsodrawntoit,especiallywhenasmallpartofmymindwasinsistentlytellingmethat

weshouldgetoutofhereandheadsomewhereelse.Iwouldbe safe here. The rest ofmymind was insisting on that,drowningoutmyfears.

Alberto drove along awalkway to the chateau. Heand Jim Haworth sat in thefront of the car; Edna and Iwerewedgedintotheback.“So you’ve been living in

Italy,”Ednasaid.

“InRome,foraboutayear.”“Is that where you two

met?” She smiled. “‘ThreeCoins in theFountain’ isoneof my favorite movies—soromantic.”Older American women

often seemed to find mysituationromantic.Ihadoncethought of it as romanticmyself.Mytasteforromancewas probably why none ofmy relationships had lastedvery long; the romance

alwaysworeoffintheend.“Actually, we met in New

York,”Isaid,“tryingtohailacab on the same corner.Albertowasthereonbusiness—his firm imports a lot ofAmerican products. Weendedupgoingtodinner,andone thing led to another, anda couple of months later, IwaslivinginRome.”“Howadventurous.”I had never been

adventurous; it only sounded

that way. However great mylonging for romance and abreakfrommyeveryday life,Ialwayscoveredmybets.Myjobwassafeattheadagencybecause my best friendownedtheagency;KarenhadfaxedonlylastmonthtosayIcould come back any time.My apartment had beensubletted, so I would stillhave a place to live if Ireturned to New York. Itwasn’tmystyleeithertoburn

my bridges behind me or tocommitmyselfcompletelybyabandoningmyprevious life.I had read that Francois I,Chambord’s builder, hadneededthousandsofhorsestobring his luggage, servants,and courtiers to this chateaujust for short visits. I couldsympathize with that. I tookall my baggage with me,psychologicallyatleast.All of my past caution

might not make any

difference now, I remindedmyself.Atthemoment, theremight be little security foranyone. That thought shouldhave brought on anotherwave of despair and fear.Instead, I found myselfplacidly lookingforward toacloserlookatthemagnificentchâteau. Something’s wrong,my inner voice told me; Iignoredit.Thegreatchâteauwaseven

larger than I realized. We

couldhavewalked around it,following the wide pathwaythat led around the moat totheentranceontheotherside,butitwouldhavebeenalongwalk.Ifanyvisitorswerestillinside, I had the feeling wecould wander through thechateaufordayswithouteverfinding them.Chambordwasaworld in itself; I no longerfeared what might behappeningelsewhere.The main entrance was in

thecenterofawall;thedoorsand the gate of the archedentryway were open. Thetowers of the keep rosebehind the wall, still goldeneven under the overcast sky.Wegotoutandwentthroughthe entrance to the pebbledcourtyardinfrontofthekeep.“Howstrange,”Albertosaid

softly. “I feel as if I belonghere.” In the past, I wouldhave teased him about hisarrogance, but the same

feeling of belonging hadstolen over me. Perhaps itwas the strangeness of oursituation, of being alone inthis monument toRenaissance architecturewhile the world outsidewaited—forwhat?“Know what you mean,

son,” Jim was saying toAlberto. “I feel kind of easyhere, too. Almost seems likewe got all scared fornothing.”

Across the courtyard, thetwo doors leading into thekeep were also open. Wewalked toward the steps thatledtothem.“It’salmostasifsomeone wants us to comeinside,”Isaid.“Probably the folks trying

togetawayjustdidn’tbothertocloseup,”Ednasaid.We climbed the steps and

enteredthekeep.Inthecenterof a large bare hall, square,massivepalepillarssupported

awindingstairway.Fromtheentrance, it looked as thoughtherewas only one staircase,but I knew there were two,entwined around each other.A slight dark-haired womanstoodonalowerstep,leaningagainstthemarblebannister.“Vousparlezfrançais?”the

womancalledout.“Oui,” Alberto shouted

back,hisvoiceechoingintheemptyhall.She hurried to us. There

was no tension in her faceand no fearfulness in herbrowneyesassheintroducedherself. Her name wasAriane, and she was stayingat St-Michel, the inn acrossfrom the chateau. She hadbeen over by the canal,speakingtooneoftheestate’sgamekeepers,whenthewhitelight had filled the sky andtheterrorhadseizedher.Sheand the gamekeeper wererunning toward the innwhen

Ariane saw her sister, whohad traveled there with her,speeding away in their car.By then, other vehicles wereracing toward the road.Alberto waited until theFrenchwoman was finished,then translated for the restofus.“She must be furious with

hersister,”Imurmured.Edna shook her head.

“Maybe not. Everybody justran. You don’t know how it

was. You couldn’t think ofanything else except gettingoutofhere.”Jimnodded.“Mightofeven

leftEdnabehindifshehadn’tbeenhangingontome.”Ariane didn’t look

frightened now. She saidsomething about beingcontent to stay here for themoment; I knew enoughFrench to catch that much.Alberto translated the rest.Jean, the gamekeeper, had

gone to let the horses out ofthe stables; she would waithere for him and then returntotheinn.She sounded awfully calm

under the circumstances. Iwould have found herserenity eerie except that Iwas finding it increasinglyhardtoworkupanyrealfearmyself.Ialmostfeltdrugged.Maybe we were all toostunned by our situation toreact to anything. Our

psychological defenses mustbe kicking in, I thoughtabsently.The Haworths decided to

wait with Ariane, then walkto the innwith her and Jean.Alberto was sayingsomethingelsetoArianeasIwandered toward thestaircase,suddenlywantingtobe by myself. Inside thismagnificent château, I couldpretend,forawhile,thattherewasnothingtoworryabout.

It struck me then that, nomatterwhat the intentions ofthe interstellar visitor, ourworld would never be thesame. Even if the alien shipleft without revealing itspurpose, we would all knowthat other beings were outthere, and that theircivilization was obviouslytechnologicallyfarinadvanceofourown.Whatwould thatdotous?NowonderIwantedto remain here, near one of

humankind’s wonders,thinkingbacktoa timewhenmostpeoplehadassumedthatbeings on other worlds didnotexist.Astockybrown-hairedman

had come inside the chateau;I assumed he was Jean thegamekeeper. Alberto saidsomething to him, and thenthemanledtheotherstowardtheentrance.I leaned against the stone

railing. My feet were

beginningtohurt.Ankle-highleather boots with pointedtoesandnarrowheelsweren’tgood for walking very far.That was probably why JimHaworth was surprised tofind out I was an American,becauseIwaswearingapin-striped pantsuit and chicboots instead of jeans andathletic shoes.Alberto didn’tlike it when I looked tooAmerican.Things had not been right

betweenAlbertoandmeforawhile. I wasn’t sure ofexactly when I had begun tonotice that.Maybe itwas themorningwhenIstoodbyourapartment window andrealized thatRomeno longerlooked as it had to me, asthough fragments of the pastwereslippingintothepresent,or as if the presentwere justan illusion superimposed onsomethingmore ancient. Thepresent had finally overtaken

myviewofthecity.AllIsawnow was the chaotic traffic,and all I could hear was theconstantnoiseofthestreets.Once, Ihadbeenentranced

by the city and its layers ofhistory, and then I waslonging to get away. Thesamewastrueofmyfeelingstoward Alberto. Everythingthat had drawn me—hisexpressiveness, his ardentprofessions of love, hisdetermination to enjoy

whatever he wanted to doregardless of the cost, hisinability to keep to anyschedule for long, his erraticmoods—were exactly thesame characteristics that hadfinallyconvincedmethatourrelationship couldn’t work.His unquestioned assumptionthat I was the lady of thehouse and that he was incharge of everything elsehadn’thelped,either.Everything had come to a

head after yet another hair-raising ride through Romantraffic in the Fiat that hewould never allow me todrive. I started screaming athim about his recklessnessand the motorcyclist he hadnarrowly missed and theamountofwinehehaddrunk.He was retaliating with hisusual tirade about myconstipated American wayswhen he abruptly fell silent,then said, “You wanted to

spend some time in France.We’ll go, in September orOctober.We can drive there,stop along the way. ThebusinesswillnotcollapseifIleave it in Giancarlo’s handsfor three weeks.” He hadtaken me completely bysurprise, so I hadgone alongwith his proposal. Maybe IwasalsothinkingthatImightas well see some more ofItaly and France beforewalking out on him. I had

knownthathewouldn’tcomeafter me if I left, that thebreakwouldbe final;hewastoo proud to beg, howeverwoundedhemight feel.Howirrelevantandunimportantallofthatseemednow.Ilookeddown.Albertowas

below, following me up thestaircase. I stopped to workmysoretoesinsidemyboots,and he disappeared behindthe central pillar. “Lois!” hecalledout.Hewasnowabove

me on the stairway thatintertwinedwiththisone.“Maybeyoushouldn’thave

left the Haworths without aninterpreter,”Ishoutedback.“Jean knows someEnglish.

Iwant toexplore thechateauwithyou.”I hurried up the stairs after

him, through a vast hall, andcaughtupwithhiminaroompaneled inpalewood,with alarge canopied bed againstone wall. “This room once

housedakingofPoland,”hesaid.“Perhapsweshouldstayheretonight.”I found myself laughing.

Weclaspedhandsandhurriedthrough large bare rooms,smallerroomstuckedawayincorners,andnarrowcorridors.It was difficult, even in thecozier spaces, to imagineanyone, even the arrogantmonarchs and nobles ofFrance’s past, actually livingin the vastness of this

chateau. Chambord was aplace for spectacle anddisplay, for the mighty toshow off their wealth andpower. I thought of theservants thatmust have oncestoodinthedoorwaysthatledfrom small alcoves, rooms,and passages into thestaterooms and bedchambers,howtheymusthavemarveledat the glittering and carelessaristocratswhomightaswellhave come from another

world.We scurried up stairs,

heedless of where we weregoing. I was suddenlyrelieved that Ihadnever toldAlbertothatIwasthinkingofleaving him, and deeplyregretting that I had everplanned to go back to NewYork. We would loseourselves inside Chambord,and never find our way outagain.Whathappenedoutsidecouldnottouchus.

Wehadclimbedtotheroofterracebeforeastraythoughtintruded on my contentedmood.Alloftherooms,eventhe small alcoves andchambers that lacked thehugewindows of the biggestrooms, had glowed with asoft light. Ihadassumed thatdaylightwas providingmuchof the illumination, but theovercast skyhadnot cleared,and evening wasapproaching.Irecalledseeing

lighting in some ofChambord’srooms,butnotinthe small passageswhere thewallshadalsoglowed.“The walls here,” I said.

“It’s almost as if they werelightedfrominside.”Albertodidn’tsayanything.

Ontheterrace,wewereamida forest of towers andchimneys,asifanentiretownof spires and steeples hadbeen placed on top of thechateau. I slipped my arm

through his as we walkedtowardthenorthwall.Theairhad grown sharper, colder. Ithad been warmer inside, inspiteof thesizeof theroomsand the lack of fires in thefireplaces.We came to the railing. I

had a clear viewof themoatandthecanalthatranthroughthe grounds nearest thechateau. Near a small bridgeover the canal, a flock ofducks rested on the bank. I

lifted my head, then noticedsomething else. In thedistance, at thewestern edgeoftheforestandthegroomedfield alongside it, a lowwallof thick graymist seemed tomarkaboundary.“That fog,” Isaid.“There’s

somethingoddaboutit.”“I know.” Alberto frowned

as he rubbed his dark beard.“Perhaps we should leavenow, all of us. We wouldhave to squeeze the others

into the auto, but—” Hisvoice trailed off. It wasobviousthathedidn’twanttoleave.Ididn’t,either,but thevoice inside my head wasgrowing more insistent,saying that there wassomethingthematterwithmybeing so serene, with ourwillingness to linger in aplace where people hadnearly run us down in theirfear to get away, who hadbeensodeterminedtofleethe

area that they hadn’t caredwhatwasintheirpath.“Look there.” Alberto

pointed.Fourtinyshapeshademergedfromthewalloffog.Inarrowedmyeyes,butsometimepassedbeforeIcouldseethemmoreclearly.Theywerecyclists,pedalingup theroadwe had taken. “Perhaps weshould find out what theywant.”Welefttheterrace.Itnever

occurred to me to worry

about whether the newarrivalsmightbedangerous.

The bicyclists arrived at theinn shortly after Alberto hadparked our car near theentrance. One look at theirwholesome, clean-featuredfaces told me that they wereno threat to us. They wereequipped with maps,backpacks, and other gear;one of them told us that he

hadvisitedChambordbefore.His name was Erland; he

had startlingly blue eyes,spoke perfect English, andwas a medical student fromSweden. He and his friends,anotherblondyoungmanandtwofair-hairedslenderyoungwomen,hadbeenstayingatahostel near Blois when theannouncementcame,andhadleft it only that morning.Later, they had seen a largebright flash of light in the

distance, in the direction ofCour-Cheverny.“We listened over the

radio,”Erlandsaid.Wewereallsittingintheemptydiningroom of the refurbishedcountry house that was theinn. “Knut has a short-wavewith him. We thought theymight be attacking. Therewere reports from Meung-sur-Loire and Chenonceaux,of people fleeing from thechateauxthere,seeingthesky

go white, feeling terrified.Thenitwasover.Therewerea few auto accidents,collisions, and some peoplebeinghitbycars,butnothingmoreserious.”“Happened here, too,” Jim

Haworth said, “that businesswith the sky lighting up.Mywifeandmesawit.”“Have you heard any news

sincethen?”Erlandasked.Jim shook his head. “Tried

alotoftelevisionshere.None

of them worked. Neither didtheradios.”“I was thinking the

government might haveordered a stop to newsbroadcasts,” I said, “to keeppeople from getting morefrightened.”Erland shook his head.

“How could they stop thenews, even if theywanted todoso?Theycan’t shutdownsatellites and the Internet.There are too many ways to

spread the news now.” Hemotioned at Knut. The otheryoungman rummaged in hisbackpack and took out asmall radio. We all huddledaround it and heard nothing.Nostatic,weaksignals,whitenoise—nothing but absolutesilence.“This radio was working

before,” Knut muttered inEnglish much more heavilyaccented than his friend’s.“Thereisnothingwrongwith

it.” Astrid and Dorotea, thetwoyoungwomen,glancedateachother.The Swedes were on their

feet in a few seconds. Theyswept through the inn,searchingforotherradiosandTVs,butdiscoveredthatnoneofthemworked,either.They were coming back

into the dining room when Iheard Ariane murmursomething to Jean about thelights. Alberto leaned

forward, then glanced at theHaworths.“Sheissayingthatthelightsinthisroomdonotlook the same,” he said.“Whenshewashavingdinnerhere last night, they weren’tasbright.”Erland and his friends sat

down at a nearby table.“Thereissomethingveryoddhere,” theyoungSwedesaid.“When we saw on our mapsthatwewerenearChambord,we decided to stop here for

the night.Therewas this fog—”“I saw it,” Alberto

interrupted,“fromtheroofofthe chateau. It looked almostlikeawall.”“It is hanging outside the

wall that surrounds thesegrounds,” Erland went on.“Wehadtoridethroughit.Itfeltlikeawarmsoftmass,butdryandnotdamp.Icouldfeelit pressing around me. Astrange feeling went through

me, like a small electricshock, and I thought ofturning back, but by thenwewerethroughit.”“Weallfeltit,”Knutadded.

“Butthen—”Heleanedbackin his chair. “I am glad wefound this place. We allfound ourselves glad to beherewhenwewere closer tothis inn. There is probablysomefoodinthekitchen.Weshouldmakesupperand thenget some rest.” He smiled.

“Perhapsweshouldstayforafew days.We will surely becomfortable enough. I fearedthat we might have to campoutintheforest.”Everyone seemed eerily

relaxed.Edna’sarmrestedonthat of her husband; Albertohadthesleepy-eyedcontentedlook I usually saw after hehaddrunkacoupleofglassesofwine.“Ithinkweshouldleave,”I

said, having to force the

wordsfrommylips.EvenasIsaid it, the rest of me wasthinking of supper and thensome sleep. “Something’swrong here. I think—”But Icouldn’t bring myself to sayanythingelse,andnoonewaspayinganyattentiontome.

Knut and Dorotea cookedlamb chops, potatoes, andcarrots for our supper, andserved the meal with wine

from the inn’s cellar. Wefound room keys behind thedesk in the lobbyanddriftedoff to St-Michel’s guestrooms.Isleptinmyshirtandunderpants, too tired even togotothecarandbringinmyovernightbag.Adreamcametome.Iwas

standing on the steps ofChambord’s double stairway,gazingdownat thepeople inthe hall below. The hall wasablaze with light, and four

people stood near thestaircase beckoning to me. Irecognized Erland and hiscompanions; they seemed towant me to join them.Looking up, I saw Albertoabove me; I hurried up thestairs, lifting the skirt of mylongbluesilkgown.Ileftthestairwayandcame toa roomwhereEdnaandJimHaworthsat in two small woodenchairs, warming themselvesnearthefirethatblazedinthe

fireplace. Ariane entered theroom, clothed in a long redgown. Faces appeared in theembroideryon thewallsnearthewindowandsmiledatme.I was on the staircase again,with stone dragons writhingonthepilastersabovemeandstone salamanders flickingtheir tails as they crawledalongthewalls.Icametotheterrace and foundAlberto bythe railing, looking out overthe forest. He held out his

arm and I rested my handagainst it, but somethingaboutmygesturefeltfalse,asif I hadn’t quiteperformed itcorrectly.Ontheothersideofthecanal,Jeanwasridingoutof the woods on horsebackwith a deer slung across hismount. It was all ours, thismagical place. No one couldtakeitfromus.I woke and lay in bed

without moving. I was usedtowakinginthemiddleofthe

night,whenallmyself-doubtandneuroseswereworkingatfull strength to convince methat my life was empty anduseless. Even when I sleptthroughuntilmorning,Ioftenhadtolietherewrestlingwithlassitude and despair beforefacing the day. The hollow,stunned feeling ofhopelessness with which Iwas so familiar was gone; Iwasn’t quite sure of what Iwas feeling instead.

Anticipation? Happiness? Ihadn’tbeentrulyhappyforsolong thathappinesswouldbehardtorecognize.I sat up.Ourovernightbag

sat near the window. Thedooropened;Albertoenteredwith a tray holding a pot ofcoffee and two cups. In allour time together, he hadneveroncebroughtmecoffeein the morning. He hadforgotten to bring milk, orelsehadn’tfoundany;Idrank

thecoffeeblack.“I dreamed about you,” I

said as he sat down on theedgeofthebed.“Wewereinthe chateau, all ofus,Arianeand the Haworths and theSwedes. I found you on theterrace.Jeanwasridingoutoftheforestwithadeercarcassonhishorse.Itwasasif—”“—it belonged to us,”

Alberto finished. “I had thesame dream, Lois, or onemuch like it. I stood on the

terrace,andyoucame tome,andthenIsawJeancomeoutof the forest. Before that, Iwas standing on the centralstaircase,andyouwerethere,and the young Swedes werecallingout tous.Then Iwasin another room, with theHaworthsandAriane.”“Isn’t that kind of strange,

bothofusdreamingthesamething?”Ipouredmyselfmorecoffee. “There’s somethingelse. My dream didn’t feel

like one of my dreams. Foronething,mineusuallyaren’tthatcoherent.Foranother—”I tried to think of how toexplain it. “I felt as if I wasplaying a part in a way,almost as if someone weretryingtocastmebutIwasn’tquite right for the role. Andyet—”Alberto said, “I felt I was

whereIbelonged.”“I felt that you were, too.

Youknow,whenIwasakid,

I used to imagine that I’dmeetaprincesomeday,oranobleman anyway, and endup living in a palace. It’s acommon enough fantasy,almostacliché,but—”“One of my mother’s

ancestors was a count,” hesaid. “This was severalgenerationsback,butshewasquite proud of her great-great-grandfatherthecount.”Isaid,“Thatexplainsafew

things about you,” and

touchedhisarmlightly.“Oh, I consideredherpride

inhimanaffectation,butshemusthavepassedonsomeofthat pride tome. There havebeen a few times, evenrecently, when I would tellmyself while in a badsituation to behave as thecountmighthave.”My dream had seemed

familiar, as if I’d dreamed itbefore, and yet parts of itseemedtocomefromoutside

my own memories andimagination. I recalled thefeeling that I had beenplayingapart,thatsomethinghad forced the role onme. Iwas about to say that weshouldgotoourcaranddriveawaynow,butcouldn’tbringmyselftospeak.Somehow I got up and got

dressed. Alberto wasuncharacteristically subdued.Welefttheroomtogetherandfoundtheotherssittingonthe

terrace,gazingat thechateauacrosstheway.Chambordwasunearthly in

the early morning light.Despite its size, it had anethereal air. As I movedacross the terrace, my armlooped through Alberto’s, Icouldimaginethegreatcastleascending to the sky to restamongclouds.Everyonewasstaringatus.

I was about to greet theHaworths when Jean and

Ariane rose to their feet.Theblond cyclists stood up then,followedbytheHaworths.Edna came toward us, her

husband just behind her.“Youwereinmydream,”shesaidinasoftvoiceunliketheheartier one I recalled fromthe day before, “you andAlberto both. We were overthere, in the castle, all of us.We—”Jim made a sound, almost

likeamoan.Heseemedtobe

struggling to say something.His thin face contorted, thenrelaxed. I had the strangesensation that Ariane, Jean,andtheSwedeswereabouttocurtsyandbowtous.Noone else spoke.We left

the terrace together, insilence. Jean and Ariane ledthe way, followed by theHaworths. They moved at astatelypace, theirbacksstiff,their footsteps slow anddeliberate.TheyoungSwedes

were behind us, bringing upthe rear. When I tried tospeak, to turn around and goback to my room, my bodyrefusedtoobeyme.We walked toward the

chateau. It seemed to risefrom the ground as weapproached it. The horseswere grazing nearby; theylifted their heads andwhinnied. A deer wasstanding at the edge of theforest,unafraid.

Wepassedthroughthestill-open entrance and wentinside the keep. I foundmyself on the doublestaircase, feeling as though Iwas trapped inside lastnight’sdream.Ilookeddownto seeErland and his friendsgazingupatme.Iwasontheterrace,withno

memory of having climbedthat far. Alberto was at myside, surveying the woodsbelow. How familiar it all

seemed. I had imagined sucha scene as a child, whendreaming of a prince whowouldtakemeawayfrommyordinary life andcarryme tohisfairy-talerealm.“Alberto,” I said, and his

name sounded as if someoneelsehadspokenit.The wall of fog was still

visible, but higher now,almost obscuring the distantroad. A long line of carswaitedbeyond thegraymist.

It looked as though peoplewere returning to Chambord.I wondered why they hadstopped there instead ofcontinuingontheirway.The cars didn’t move. A

few tiny human figureswerewalking among the vehicles,waving and motioning withtheir arms. I continued towatchthemistywallriseuntilIcouldnolongerseethelineofcars.Thesunhadrisen,thesky was a sharp blue, and it

came tome then that the airwasmuchwarmerthanithadbeen the day before, almosttoo warm for this time ofyear.“Alberto,” I said, and the

word tore itself from me.“Wehavetogetoutofhere.”“You are wrong,” he said.

“Chambord belongs to usnow.”Istruggledtoholdontomy

thoughts. The fog was stillrising;itwouldwallusin,cut

usofffromtheoutside.WhatdidIcareabouttherestoftheworld?Icouldbehappyhereas the lady of the castle,mylord at my side. Hadn’t thatalways been a favoritefantasyofmine?He took my arm. I felt

entranced,unabletoresistthedreamlike state stealing overme. I drifted across theterrace and down anotherstaircase, clinging toAlberto’sarm.Wecame toa

roomwheretheheadsofdeerandotheranimalshungonthewalls. Jean the gamekeeperwasthere,standinginfrontofatapestrydepictingahuntingparty.Jean said something in

French. I didn’t catch hiswords. “What did he say?” Iwhispered.Itwasanefforttospeak;mywords sounded asthough they were on a tapebeing played at too slow aspeed.

“That he was agamekeeper,” Albertoreplied,“andthatnowhewillbeahunter.”I dug my fingers into

Alberto’sarmandledhimoutof the room. To speak, evento think of what to say, wasbecoming increasinglydifficult.Icouldbesafehere.Albertowouldbetransformedinto the romantic figure forwhom I had always longed,and we would have our

castle. Something wasdrawing those thoughts fromme, playing them, makingthem resonate within me.That was when I knew wehadtogetout.I would not try to talk. I

wouldhangontoAlbertoandtry to guide him away fromthis place. I looked into hisdark eyes and saw the fearthatlaybeneaththespellthathad been cast on him. Heunderstoodwhat Iwas trying

todo,evenifpartofhimwasresisting it. Maybe we couldescape.We made it to the double

staircaseanddescendedtothefloor below. I heard voicesechoing through thehall,andfollowed the sound to a red-walled room hung withportraits. Edna and JimHaworth stood in the centerof the room, speaking inEnglish to Ariane, who wasresponding in French. Edna

was muttering incoherentlyabout a garden, while Jimwas saying something abouthis army days. I couldn’tunderstand what Ariane wassaying. One look at theirslack-jawed,happy faces andemptyeyes toldme that theywere completely under thechateau’sspell.“Come with me.” I gasped

for breath as I spoke,knowing it was futile, thatthey would not be able to

leave. We went throughanotherroom,whereDorotea,oneoftheSwedes,waslyingunconsciousonabed.Igazedat her composed face andthought of Sleeping Beauty,thentriedtodragherfromthebed. She slipped from mygripandfellback.I had to save my strength.

AlbertoandIshuffledbacktothe staircase. The fartherdown the stairswewent, theharderitwastomakeourfeet

move.We came to the ground

floor and left the staircase.Erland was standing by oneofthedoorsthatledoutofthekeep.He seemed to bemilesaway, a small figure acrossthe vast polished wood plainof the floor. Iwonderedhowwe could cross that floor,howwecouldevergetoutofthechâteau.Westruggledoverthefloor.

Witheverystep, I thoughtof

howmucheasier itwouldbeto stay. I remembered thecontentment that had filledmeinsidethesewalls,ofhowmuch I wanted to remainhere. I clutched at Albertomore tightly, knowing that ifI gave up now, he wouldn’thave the strength to get outalone. His hand found mineand hung on tightly, and Iknew that Iwouldn’t get outwithouthim.Erland’s lips moved, but I

couldn’t understand what hewas saying. I think he wasbegging us to stay. Wepushed past him and wentoutside.KnutandAstridwerein the courtyard, leaningagainst each other as theystaggeredtowardthegate.All four of us got to the

walkway. I kept my eyes onthe ground, thinking only ofgettingasfarastheinn.Oncewe made it there, we couldget into the car and drive

away. I concentrated on thatthought. Alberto wasmutteringinItalian.Ikeptmyhandinhis,determinednottoletgo.Knut and Astrid were

several feet ahead of us,struggling toward the distantinn.Theforestedlandbehindthe inn seemed beyond ourreach. Knut stumbled andfell; Astrid helped him up.We had to get to the car.Maybeby thenAlbertoandI

would have enough strengthtohelptheother twointothevehicle.“Get to the car,” I

murmured,“keepgoing,”andthennoticedthatamistygraywall was rising behind thetrees. For a while, I didn’tknow what I was seeing asthe mist continued to rise,obscuring the cloudless blueexpanse.Slowly,Iforcedmyhead to my right. Anothermassoffogwasrisingtoward

thesun.Astrid and Knut had come

to a halt. The young blondwomanturnedaroundslowly.Knutwastuggingatherarm.Astridgazedpastme.Asmilespreadslowlyacrossherface,and I knew that she waslookingbackatthechâteau.She sank to the ground,

Knut at her side. They wereboth smiling when wereached them, and I thoughtof howChambordmust look

now, the perfect castle withits crown of towers pointingtowardthesky.Irememberedhow happy I had felt whilestanding atAlberto’s side onChambord’sterrace.“Don’t look back,” I

managed to whisper as wedraggedourselves around thecouple sitting on the ground.They had given up thestruggle; the chateau’s spellhadclaimedthem.I don’t know how long it

took us to get to the inn andour car. By the time wespotted the Fiat, the sun haddisappeared.Most of the skywas obscured by the fog, agray iris slowly contractingaround the blue disk of skythatremained.Albertofumbledthroughhis

pockets for the keys. Itseemed to take forever forhimtofindthem.IheardhimwhisperinItalian.“Don’ttalk.”Mythroatwas

tight and dry, my voicealmostgone.“Wewouldbehappyhere,”

hesaid.“No.”“Get me away from here,”

he gasped, and I knew hisstrengthwasalmostgone.He had left the car

unlocked. I opened the dooron the right and shoved himinside, then staggeredaroundto the driver’s side. I got inandstartedthecar.

Theenginechokedbefore Icould get themotor running.TheFiatweaved as I steereditaway from the inn. Iclungto the wheel, which keptthreatening to twist itselffrommyhands.Ifoundmywaytoaroad.If

Ikeptgoing,Iwouldhavetoreach an exit sooner or later.Thecarswervedfromsidetoside as I accelerated. Thespeedometerwasreadingfiftykilometers per hour; it felt

more like a crawl. Then themotorsuddenlydied.Thecarslowedtoastop,throwingmetowardthewindshield.“We have to walk.” My

voice seemed very far away.“Open thedoorandgetout.”Somehow Alberto got thedoor open. He got out anddraggedmeoutafterhim.We had our arms around

eachother,holdingourselvesup aswe stumbled along theroad. I could see the fog

ahead of us, a thick curtainhiding everything on theother side. It was foolish togo on struggling when wecould stay here. I thought ofthe contentment I had feltwith Alberto inside thechâteau, how we bothbelonged there, our fantasiesfulfilled. Then I recalled themindlesslooksonthefacesofthe Haworths and Erland’svacantblueeyes.“Don’t look back.” My

mind chanted the words:Don’t lookback,keepgoing.Wecametothefog.Thegraymist enveloped us; the fogwas thick and heavy, a drywarmmass. I felt it resistingmeand struggled for air.Fora moment, I couldn’t move.We clung to each other,embeddedinthegraymass;Iimagined it growing solidaroundus.Thenthethickfogbeforemegaveway, andwestumbledintothelight.

Igaspedforbreath;Albertowascoughing.Theskyaboveus was blue. The drugged,entranced feeling was gone,andIwasbeginningtonoticehow much my feet hurt. Atwo-laneroadlaybeforeus.Iturnedaroundslowly.Behindus, the wall of fog stretchedtothenorthandsouth,hidingallofChambord.“Lois,” Alberto said. “I

wantedtostay.”“SodidI.”

“Butnotnow.”Far to the north, on the

road, I could now see whatlooked like roadblocks andseveral parked cars.One car,with a light on its roof, wascominginourdirection.It was a police car, from

Orléans. The twomen insidequicklymotionedforustogetin. I collapsed against theseat,exhausted,whileAlbertoand the two men talked;during pauses in the

conversation, Albertotranslated for me. Theauthorities in Blois hadrequested the aid of theOrléans police in returningtheresidentsandshopkeepersof Chambord to theirestablishments. They hadcome there to find a fog thatwas an impenetrable barrier,impossible to drive throughand steadily increasing inheight. The police hadthought it best to get people

fartherawayfromthearea.We came to a stop at the

intersection where the othercars were parked. All of theroads were blocked off;people stood by their cars,gazing toward Chambord.Albertohelpedmeoutof thecar, then turned to talk somemore with the police. Theyseemedtobeaskinghimwhathad happened to us. Tworeporters with microphonesandcameramenweremoving

among the crowd; anothercameraman was on top of avan, his camcorder aimed inthedirectionofthechâteau.I looked south, toward

Chambord. The chateau andits groundswerenowhiddenbehind a vast gray dome. Ithought of how the fog hadheld us, then yielded.Something had let us go—orperhaps hadn’t wanted tokeepus.Ahandclutchedmyelbow.

“This is not the only placethis has happened,” Albertomurmured. “One of thepolicementoldme.Therewasnews of people fleeing fromPlessis-Bourré, theChenonceau château, otherplaces along the Loire. Nowtheyareallbehindenclosureslike that one, and there is noway of knowing how manypeoplemaybetrappedinsidethem.”“NotonlyhereinFrance,”a

gray-hairedman near us saidin heavily accented English.“There is news of suchhappenings in Germany andSpainalso.”I leaned againstAlberto.A

woman came to us and wasthrustingamicrophoneinmyfacewhena cylinderof lightshot down from the sky andtouched the gray dome. Thefog disappeared; thepavement under my feettrembled, then shook more

violently.The ground lurched.

Albertoheldmeup.Someonescreamed behind me; theground shook again. In thedistance, the forests ofChambordwererisingtowardthe sky. The chateau was aglittering, tiny crown amidthe green expanse torn fromtheEarth.Iwatcheditsascentuntil Chambord and itsgrounds were only a speckmoving toward the sun.

Where they had been, only agapingcanyonremained.

The aliens gathered upchâteaux from the Loire, acouple of German castlesalong the Rhine, and twostone fortresses from Spain.They left deep gashes in theEarth and billions ofbewildered people. Enoughfootage of theincomprehensible theft of

these treasures had beenobtained to fill newsprograms for weeks. Againandagain,inrerunsandslowmotion,castlesandthetownsor lands around them weretornfromEarth’ssurfaceandascended to theheavens.Thecraters and ravines markingthe places where they hadonce stoodwere filmed fromdifferent angles. There waseven footage taken by thecosmonauts andastronauts in

orbit. Their film showedcastles on disks of landfloatingtowardthealienship,seemingly encased bytranslucent domes, smallbubblesagainsttheblackness.An opening in the metallicgray alien vessel had openedto receive them,and then theshipvanishedasmysteriouslyandabruptlyasithadarrived.Alberto and I spent a few

weeks doing interviews,occasionally in the company

ofotherswhohadmanagedtoescape from other stolencastles. Representatives ofvarious militaryestablishments also hadquestionsforus,butIsuspectwe didn’t enlighten themmuch. Eventually thereporters and debriefers hadlostinterestinus.Iflewbackto New York, talked myfriend Karen into letting medo freelance work for her inItaly,foundapublisherforan

accountofmyadventure,andthenreturnedtoRome.We can pretend that things

will return to normal, but Idoubt they ever truly will. Ifind myself thinking ofChambord, imagining ithoused inside the alien ship,perhaps on an inner surfacewhereonecouldstandonthechateau’s terrace and seeothercastlesinthedistance.Ithink of the Haworths, theyoung Swedes, the

gamekeeperJean,andAriane,and wonder if they’re stillunderthespellthealienscast.I often feel, asAlberto does,thatthealiensletusgooutofrespect for our resistance tothem, but perhaps they wereonlytoyingwithusaswetoywith smaller creatures, orrejecting us as unsuitable forwhatever roles they wantedus to play. I tell myself thatthe aliens took too muchtrouble in collecting their

castles not to care for themandpreservethem,butmaybethey only mean to play withthem for awhile, as childrendo with new playthingsbeforediscardingthem.And Iwonder, as everyone

wonders now, if they willevercomebacktocollecttherest of our castles andpalaces.

Afterwordto“Collectors”:Stories come to me indifferent ways. Some storiesinhabit me for a while,lurking at the edges ofconsciousness until they’reready to be written. Otherssuddenlyspringintomymindfull-grown,onlytofadeafewmomentslater.Theprocessofwriting them then becomes arecovery operation, an effort

to remember what wasforgotten; the final versionalmost always falls short oftheoriginalvision.“Collectors” was a story

that might not have beenwritten—maybe a moreaccurate way to put it is tosay that I might not haverealizedIwantedtowriteit—had John DeChancie notaskedme to contribute to ananthologyhewaseditingwithMartin H. Greenberg,Castle

Fantastic. The onlyrequirement was that eachstory be set in a castle or beabout castles, and althoughJohn expected that most ofthe authors would contributefantasy stories, he was alsoopentootherkindsoftales.This story came to me

immediately, and I had theperfect setting for it—thechâteau of Chambord, surelyone of the most ostentatiousand monumental dwellings

everbuilt,whichIhadvisitednot long before. I was evenmore encouraged to write“Collectors” by the fact thatan editor (who also happensto be a writer himself) hadaskedme fora story.Havinga story requested from meand knowing that whatever Iwrite will be accepted andpublished is a powerfulinducement, largely becausean editor is expressing hisfaiththatIwilldeliveragood

pieceofwork.Inaprofessionwhere one’s confidence canso easily be destroyed (bythoughtless or scathingreviews, by the troubles anddistractions of life, by thedemands of thework, by theabysses of self-doubt thatafflict us all), having thatkind of trust is extremelyliberating. You do and dowell because you simplycannotdisappointthegiverofsuchfreedom.

So I began writing thisstory, fairly sure of what Iwas doing and knowing howthe story was likely to end,andsooncametoadeadstop.Topromise a story, and thenlet the editors down—Icouldn’tallowthattohappen,but “Collectors” wasn’tcooperating with me.Fortunately, I eventuallyrealized what the problemwas: the story had come tome, fully shaped and in its

appropriate setting, but I hadnot heard the voice of thestoryproperly.How a story is told can

make all the difference, andthisonecamealiveonlyafterI began to tell it in firstperson; only then did thecentral character live. Mymistake had been in notwaiting long enough to hearthatvoicespeakclearly.

ISLES

Theirhotelwasnearthetrainstation, close enough forMiriam and Alan to walkthere. She hefted their carry-on bags while he picked uptheir two suitcases andfollowed her down the steps.AtthedocksalongtheGrandCanal, people were gettingout of a long flat-toppedpassenger boat as three

gondolas glided away acrossthe greenish-blue water. Theairsmelledofsulphurandsaltwaterandgasolineandfaintlyofrottingfish.Alanhadamapshowingthe

location of the hotel.Miriamknew that hewould not lookat it and would only getannoyed if she stopped andrummaged inherbag forherown map. He would neverlook at a map or askdirections.InFlorence,ithad

taken them forty minutes toget to the Uffizi from thePiazza Santa Croce becauseAlanknewexactlywhere theUffizi was and how to getthere and you couldn’t misstheplacebecauseitwasonlya five or ten-minute walkfromthePiazzaSantaCroce.He led her away from the

Grand Canal to a narrowcobblestoned walkway thatran between a row ofbuildingsandthenpastkiosks

and booths offeringpostcards, marionettes,newspapers, magazines,cheap jewelry, T-shirts, toygondolas, and masks. Thehotel, a square yellow six-story structure, turned out tobe only a five-minute walkfrom the station. Miriam saton a sofa in the lobbywhileAlan checked them in,studying the map she hadbought after getting off thetrain. Her friend Leah had

told Miriam that she wouldneed a good map in Venice.Her hands shook as sherefolded the map. The strainof trying to be calm duringthetraintripwascatchingupwith her. If she dwelled toomuch on the problemsawaiting her and Alan whenthey got home, she wouldpanic and lapse into one ofthe fitsofhystericalweepingthatsoenragedhim.“It’s Room 414.” She

lookedupasAlanhandedhera metal key attached to asmallplasticcylinderbearingtheroomnumber.Aporterina red uniformwaswith him,carryingthesuitcases.She followed her husband

and the porter through thelobbytotheelevator.Likethelifts in their hotels in Romeand Florence, the elevatorwas a closet-sizedconveyance barely largeenough for the three of them

andtheluggage.Theelevatorshook as it stopped at theirfloor. The hallway to theirroom had pale walls withgold trim and dark redcarpeting. The porter openedthe door, then led theminside, setting thebagsdownnearawoodencloset.“Grazie”Alanmurmured.“Prego,”theporterreplied.

Alan handed him a tip; thedoorclosedbehindtheporter.Another minefield now lay

aheadofthem,thatdangerousstretch of time when theywouldrestintheirhotelroombefore unpacking, when oneor the other of them mightsay the wrong thing becausethere was nothing else todistractthemfromeachother.An invisible band tightenedaroundherchest.“Our gondola ride’s at

seven,” Alan said. Miriamlooked at herwatch and sawthat it was only five. “I

checkedatthedesk.Wehaveto go over to that dock nearthe train station. It’ll costabout140,000lire.”“Isn’t that kind of high?

That’s something like ahundreddollars,isn’tit?”TheItaliancurrencystillconfusedher, even with a pocketcalculator,and theunfamiliarbillsseemedliketoymoney.“More like eighty, but you

can’texactlycometoVenicewithout taking a gondola

ride.”The small room had two

twin beds pushed togetherand a narrow third bedpushedagainst thewall. “It’ssweltering in here,” Miriamsaid.“Better open the window,

then, because there isn’t anyair conditioning. They toldmeatthedesk.They’redoingrepairs. Maybe we won’tneed it. I mean, it is lateSeptember.”

Miriam pulled back thecurtains, then opened thelarge windows. The roomoverlooked the watery greenspan of the Grand Canal, awalkway alongside it, and,just below, an open areadotted with kiosks. Anotherhotel, painted pink, wasacross the way, its flower-lined courtyard filled withempty tables covered withpinktablecloths.Themiasmicair still smelled of sulphur,

salt,anddecay.She said, “It isn’t what I

expected.”Alan let out a sigh. “Don’t

start,Miri.”“I didn’t mean—” Miriam

stopped herself. She hadalmost risen to the bait. Shehad meant to say, but in alight,bantering tone, thatshedidn’t expect her first sightsinVenicetobealotofshopsand booths selling tackysouvenirs. Alan would have

retorted with quiet but bitterwords about how he wassorry they couldn’t affordsome place closer to SaintMark’sSquare.Shewouldtryto apologize, but by then hewouldhaveretreatedintooneof his silences. Hewould bethinking that she was afterhim again because nothinghad turned out the way theyhadhoped, and he knew thatshe blamed him for a lot ofthat. She was not blaming

him for anything at themoment,butshehaddonesooftenenoughinthepast.Sheprobably deserved to feelguilty now for all the timesshe had cut away at him.Hehadpickedather,too,usuallywhen she was at her mostvulnerable, as if herunhappiness made her giveoff pheromones that onlymade him want to hurt hermore.Hehad toldher sixmonths

ago that they should go toItaly,because theyhadneverbeen and had always wantedtogo.“We can’t afford it,” she

hadtoldhim.“You’re right,” he had

replied, “we can’t. We alsowon’t be able to afford itlater,andbythenwe’llbetooold to enjoy the trip. We’llneverbeable toafford it.Sowe might as well go now.”Hismouthhad twisted in the

expression she thought of ashis not-quite-smile, the lookhe had whenever he wasfeelingespeciallybitter.Miriam turned away from

the window and sat down intheroom’sonlychair,nexttothe small desk. Alan wassittingononeofthebeds.Hereachedintohisjacketpocketand took out a pack ofcigarettes. Miriam lit one ofherown.Shedidnothave tofeel guilty about smoking

overhere,wherenonsmokingareas seemed nonexistent.Alan, after quitting for threeyears, had relapsed lastspring,soshedidnothavetofeel guilty about smokingaround him, either. She nolonger had to listen to himharpatherabout thedangersof side smoke and how hewouldnotcometovisitherinthe hospital if she developedlungcancerandthathecouldbarely bring himself to kiss

her sometimes. He did notkissherthatmuchanyway.“There’s actually kind of a

nice breeze,” Miriam said.“Weprobablydon’tneedanyair conditioning.” She stillfelt too warm, but did notwant to admit that out loud.He would blame herdiscomfortonmenopauseandtell her to pester hergynecologist for moregoddamnedhormones so thatshewouldn’tbesobitchyand

havesomanyhotflashes.Shewould have to remind himthat larger doses were moredangerous and that theestrogen made her gainweight and that he wasalreadynaggingathertoloseafewpounds.Theyhadgonethrough that particularargumentbefore.“Want a drink?” Alan

asked.“Sure.”He reached into one of the

carry-ons and took out abottle of Scotch as Miriamwent into the bathroom tolookforglasses.Therewasadraininboththefloorandtheshower stall, which had nocurtain. The stall lookedforlornwithout a curtain; thecurved metal soap holdermadeherthinkofahandheldout in supplication. Tearssprang to her eyes; sheswallowed hard. Tears camemuchtooeasilytoher lately.

She could not start cryingnow. Alan would explode ifshe did. “I’mdoingmybest,Miri. I’m trying as hard as Ican, but I can’t control theworld.Doyouhavetocrysomuch? Do I have to worryaboutyouall the timeon topofeverythingelse?Can’tyoueverbehappy?”Threeglasseswerenearthe

sink. Miriam brought themout to Alan. He poured acouple of fingers of Scotch

for each of them, then beganto unpack. She drank whilewatching him hang up hisclothes.Shewouldwaituntilhe was in the shower beforesheunpackedherown.“Someday,” Vera Massie

used to say, “I’m going tomovetoVenice.I’ll liveinapalazzoandhaveagondolierfor a lover.” Vera had beenher best friend in college.Strange that Miriam shouldthink of her now, when she

had lost track of Vera longago. They had said suchthings back then, believingthat at least a few of themmight happen. Vera wouldpaintandMiriamwouldwritearticles for magazines. Theywould travel to Venice,Nairobi, Amman, Istanbul,Sydney, Monte Carlo, andRio de Janeiro, fall in lovewith guides, adventurers,gamblers, artists, andmysterious men with no

visiblemeansofsupport,andsomehow pick up enough atodd jobs between trips tosupportthemselves.Well, Miriam told herself,

at least I made it to Venice,and wondered what Verawould have thought of thecircumstances.Heroldfriendwould not have imaginedback then thatMiriamwouldtravel there only in an efforttoshoreupafailingmarriageand to pretend, for a while,

thathertroubleswerenotthatserious.Itwasprobablyjustaswell

that she had lost track ofVera, who had possessed anenviable talent for beingcheerful and enjoying themoment, whatever problemsmight lie ahead. Vera wouldhave been disappointed inwhatMiriamhadbecome.

The skywas grayer, but still

light when they met thegondolier by the dock.Alternating between Alan’shalting Italian and thegondolier’s slightly betterEnglish, the two men finallymanagedtoagreethattheridewould be an hour long andwould cost only 110,000 lireand that it would take themalongsomeofthesidecanals.The gondolier helped

Miriam into the stern of thecraft. She sat down as Alan

climbed in next to her,followed by the gondolier.The gondola rocked slightlyastheydriftedawayfromthedock.Fourgondolascarryingsmall groups of graying andwhite-hairedpassengerswereglidingtowardthem;inafifthgondola, a man standing onthe platform next to agondolier sang as a man inthe middle of the gondolaplayed an accordion. Theelderlypassengers lifted their

plastic cups in a toast,salutingMiriam and Alan astheypassed.The gondolier behind them

shouted to one of the othergondoliers, who respondedwith a stream of Italian.“What are they saying?”Miriamasked.Alanleanedbackinhisseat

and slipped his arm over hershoulders. “Can’t tell,” hesaid. “People say that evenother Italians don’t

understand this dialect toowell.” He smiled. “Bet theycultivate it deliberately.Probably don’t want any ofthe passengers to knowwhatthey’re saying.”Hehadbeenlistening to language tapesand practicing with a phrasebook ever since they haddecidedtotakethistrip.In some sense, Miriam

thought, she hadmarried theadventurer she had hoped tofall in love with when

younger.Alanwas,however,anadventurerwhohadfailedat being truly adventurous.He picked up languageseasily—French during asummer abroad in highschool, German during hisArmy days, when he hadlucked out and ended up inEurope instead of Vietnam,some Spanish when hisbusiness had started hiringmore Latino constructionworkers. His plans for their

life had been bothstraightforwardandrisky.Hisbusinesswouldgrow,even ifthey had to stick their necksout in the beginning. Peoplealways needed new houses,and he knew he could notstand working for someoneelse. When they werebringing in more money,Miriamcouldquitherjobandtheywouldtravel,astheyhadalways intended to do. Aftertheir children came, the plan

had been to wait until theywere old enough so that thefamilycouldtraveltogether.They had gotten no farther

away than a winter vacationin Cancun and a summervacation, years later, in theCanadian Rockies, becausethe business had requiredmore and more of Alan’stime. By the time they hadbeen ready to abandonarmchair travel for the realthing,Alanwas struggling to

keep his business afloat,Miriamwashangingontoherjob wondering when theinsurancecompanywouldlayher off, their daughter Joellehad dropped out of her thirdcollege in a row to move inwithherboyfriend,andJasonhad developed his substance-abuse problem. Substanceabuse,theycalledit,asifherson’s difficulties weresomehow metaphysical andmighthavebeensolved ifhe

didn’t have to live in amaterial world made ofsubstancethatevenphysicistscouldn’tunderstand.Alan’s arm tensed around

her. “What’s the matternow?”hesaid,andsheheardthetightnessinhisvoice, thesound of exasperation thatcouldquicklyturnintoanger.“Nothing,” she replied,

trying to smile. They werehere to have a good time, tolive in the present, not to

worry about failingbusinesses, troubled children,andlostdreams.A motorboat passed them,

making the gondola rock alittle. Their gondolier wassteeringintoasidecanal.Thesounds of motors, singinggondoliers, and accordionsabruptlyceased.The sudden silence startled

her. This canal was narrow,with stained and peelingpastel walls rising up on

eitherside.Afewmotorboatswere tied up near walkwaysand stone steps leading todoors.Theshuttersofseveraloverhead windows had beenopened, and clothes hungfromropesstretchedbetweenwindows, but the buildingsseemedempty.Miriamheardno voices and saw nomovements inside thewindows. The silence wasunnerving, as though thecrowds of tourists and

residents had suddenlyabandoned the city. Perhapsallthepeoplewereout,ridingin gondolas and walkingalong the narrow streets andmeetingfriendsfordinner.How fanciful of her to

imagine that Venice waspopulatedbypeoplewhohadnothing better to do than totakeaneveningstrollorboatride, sit around drinkingwine, make their owncontributions to the city’s

works of art, and admire thedecaying beauty of theiratmospheric homes.Many ofVenice’s citizens would stillbe engaged in the necessarytasks of guiding herds oftourists to various sites,cookingandservinghotelandrestaurant dinners, sellingsouvenirs. Some of themmight work in the refineriesacross the lagoon during theday, coming back only atnight. Most of the people in

this region apparently livedover there on the mainland,under smoggy gray cloudsand amid factories andstorage tanks.Many of themmight not even get to thisgracefulcitythatoften.The gondola was

approaching a small archedbridge. A few people stoodthere, unmoving, gazingdown at the canal. How stillthey were, Miriam thought,almost as if they were made

of stone. The air shimmered,making auras glow aroundthepeopleonthebridge.Shetouched her head reflexively,afraid a migraine might becoming on. Alan wouldblame her for ruining hervacation and tell her that shehad brought the attack ofmigraineonherself.“What’s the itinerary for

tomorrow?”Alanasked then,his voice sounding strangelyhollow.

Miriam pressed her lipstogether.Hecouldnotsimplyenjoy the gondola ride; hehad to keep thinking ahead.They had to make sure thattheyhadplentyofsightseeingplanned, so that they couldkeepup the illusion that theywere having a vacation, anescape from which theywould return refreshed, thatthistripwouldsomehowhealeverything that had gonewrong between them. They

had to keep busy, orotherwise theremight be toomuch time to think and tobroodandtoargue.“There’s that place Leah

toldusabout, that showroomthat sells Murano glass,”Miriamsaidatlast.“It’snearSt.Mark’sSquare,sowecansee the church afterwards.ThetourforEnglish-speakingtourists starts at eleven.” Ifthey were lucky, they mightmeet a congenial couple

duringthetourofthechurch,peopletheycouldhavelunchwith so that they wouldn’thave toget through lunchbythemselves.“ThenwecanseetheDoge’sPalace.”“Let’sdothatbyourselves,

okay? I don’t want to befollowing a herd around forthat,too.”“Fine,” she said. “I’m sure

we can buy a guide at theentrance.” That might keepthem busy until dinner, and

Alanhadtakentheprecautionof making reservations forthatalready.“Have to remind myself,”

he said, “to call Bernie afterbreakfast.”BerniewasAlan’sclose friend and attorney.Lately,Alanhadnot toldhermuch about his ever-more-frequent meetings withBernie. Maybe he wasthinking of declaringbankruptcy. He would comehome one day and tell her

that his business had finallygone belly-up.Hewould saythat he had kept it from herbecause he did not want herfretting over everything andmaking herself sick, eventhough she had beenworrying about everythingand making herself sick allalonganyway.“Is it so important it can’t

wait?”Miriamasked.“Yeah, it is,”andsheknew

that he would not tell her

whatitwas.The gondola glided around

a corner into another canal.Miriamwas growing used tothe odor of decay, and thedark green water was still.For a moment, she was atpeace, taking pleasure in thesilvery light and the softsound of water lappingagainst stones. Had theycome here when they wereyounger,whiletheywerestillliving together or after they

had first been married, bynowAlanwouldbe trying tokiss her. She would haveprotested, wondering whatthe gondolier might think,andAlanwouldhaveassuredherthatthemanhadprobablysteered plenty of lovers deepinthethroesofpassionalongthis canal. They would havegiggledandcuddledandthengonebacktotheirhotelroomtomakelovebeforedinner.She could not imagine that

happening now. They shouldhave come to Venice whentheywereyounger,whentheywouldhave lovedVenice forwhatitwasandnotonlyasanescape. She thought of howVenicewasslowlysinking,ofthe hordes of tourists whocameheretryingtorecapturethe sense of beauty, joy, orromancetheyhadlost,whosedemandshad turnedsomuchof this city into more of atheme park than a place of

romance, who roamed overthese islands and along thecanalsinherds.Oneday,theywould all come back to findtheir beloved city underwater,foreverlosttothem.She turned toward Alan,

about to speak, then forgotwhat she was going to say.His brown eyes stared intohers for a moment, thenlooked away. He had lostsome weight recently, andnow the tanned and leathery

skinofhisfacesaggedmore,makinghimlookolder.Alongingforwhatsheand

Alan had once been to eachother overwhelmed her. Hehadoncelovedherenoughtoresent every moment awayfrom her; she had alwaystrusted him to be at her sidewhen she needed him. Nowtheir troubles had poisonedeven the wellsprings of lovesheusedtothinkcouldneverbetainted.

A movement caught hereye;shelookedup.Awomanwaswatchingfromawindowupahead,gazingdownatthecanal. Somebody was homein one of these houses afterall.Miriam caught a glimpseof masses of pale hair, thenlifted a hand to wave. Thewomanmovedherhandinanarc, as ifwiping an invisiblewindow; the gesture seemedoddlyfamiliar.I know you, Miriam

thought.Sheblinked,andthewomanwasgone.Alantouchedherhand.She

was suddenly worried abouthim, afraid that he waskeeping too much from her.Tell me what’s wrong, shewanted to say.Tellmeaboutall the problems, and we’llwork them out together, thewayweusedtodo.Itdoesn’thave to be like this; I canmeet you halfway. I won’tpickatyou,andinreturnyou

canlistentome,stopturningaway from me, stop lookingat me with that not-quite-smile on your face that tellsme you’re sorry you evermarried me. All we have todoisrememberhowweoncefelt about each other, andeverything else will fall intoplace.The sounds of voices

suddenly washed over her inawave,nearlydeafeningher.The gondola drifted toward

another bridge, this onecrowded with Asian tourists.Miriam raised a handtentatively; thepeopleon thebridge grinned and wavedand chattered amongthemselves. The water wasslightlychoppier, rocking thegondola. Up ahead, beyondthe walls on either side ofthem, she could now see thebroad, greenish expanse oftheGrandCanal.

They ate breakfast in theirhotel, in the indoor diningroom next to the outdoortables where they had eatenlastnight.Miriamhadgottenused to the strong Italiancoffee, but still had to putmilkinittomakeitpalatable,something she never did athome. Alan had asked thewaitertobringbutterandwasputting some on one of hishard rolls. His doctor had

warned him about hischolesterol, but the butterwould probably do him lessharmthanhiscigarettes.Atthetablesontheopposite

sideof the room,whicheachbore amarker near the floralcenterpiece with the words“American Express,” a tourgroup of older gray-hairedpeople were eating bowls ofcereal.Despitetheiradvancedage,thetouristsalllookedfitand energetic and blatantly

cheerful. Almost all of themwere couples. Miriamwondered how they hadmanaged to live for so longand stay married to theirspouses without looking asthoughtheyhadregrets.Alan finished his coffee.

“Maybe you can buy a mapof the vaporetto routes,” hesaid,“whileIgoupstairsandmakethatcalltoBernie.”She would not ask him

about the call. They had

managed a pleasant dinnerthe night before, largelybecause a couple in theAmerican Express group, aretired engineer and his wifefromTampa,hadstruckupaconversation with them fromtheir table. They had notgottenofftoagoodstartthatmorning. The noise of boattraffic, loud talking, andsinging gondoliers outsidetheir open window had keptAlan awake for much of the

night. Miriam would notallowherselftoruinbreakfastwith questions about hisbusiness.“Vaporetto routes?” she

asked, not sure ofwhatAlanhadmeant.“Vaporetto,” he said as he

crumpled his napkin. “Thepublicboats,thewaterbuses.The plural is vaporetti.” Hegot tohisfeet.“Gotooneofthose booths and get a map.Just say, ‘Vorrei comprare

una carta di vaporetti.’ Thatought to do the job. If youwant to be polite, throw in a‘per favore’ and say ‘grazie’afterwards.Evenyououghttobeabletomanagethat.”Heturnedandwalkedaway.

How odd that she could feelhurt by his remark. Sheshould be used to suchcommentsbynow.Miriam stood up and

headedtowardthelobby.Theretired couple from Tampa

waved at her as she passedtheir table. She wondered ifshe and Alan would ever beable to afford to retire. Shethought of what he had saidlast night, just before theyhad gone downstairs to havedinner. “You know whatwouldsolveourproblems?IfIdroppeddead.Darrellcouldtake over the business andthen he could decide who tolay off next year. Theinsurancewould take care of

you, and Jason and Joellewould just have to look outfor themselves. And Iwouldn’thavetobebotheredany more, which would beonehellofa relief.”Shehadbeen too shocked to dowhatshe should have done,embracehimandtellhimthatshe could not bear to havehimthinkthatway.She went outside. The

narrow street was alreadycrowded with tourists; they

seemed to be everywhere.She wandered toward theopen area where severalvendors had set up theirbooths and asked in Englishforamapandscheduleofthevaporetto routes.Theman intheboothhandedthemtoher;so much for Alan’s sarcasticlanguagelessonatbreakfast.She walked toward the

Grand Canal. In a fewminutes, shewouldgo insideandwait in the lobby, trying

not to look too impatientwhen Alan finally met herthere.“Miri,” a voice said.

“MiriamFeyn.”Miriamlookedup.Nearthe

stone steps leading down tothewaterstoodatall,slenderwoman in a red T-shirt andbaggy jeans.Herunruly longhair was gray, almost white,butshestillworeitasshehadwhen younger, in a mass ofwaves that fell nearly to her

waist.“Vera Massie!” Miriam

said, and hurried toward her.“I can’t believe it!” Theyclasped hands and thenhugged each other. “We justgot here yesterday, on thetrain from Milan.” Shestepped back, gripping heroldfriendbytheelbows.“Weactually got to Venice at thesametime.”“Actually, I’ve been here

forawhile,”theotherwoman

said.“Youmeanyou livehere?”

Miriamasked.“Inamannerofspeaking.”Miriamfeltapangofenvy.

MaybeVera was leading thekind of life they had onceimaginedforthemselves.Theother woman guided Miriamtoward the courtyard of thepink hotel across the way;they sat down at one of thetables.No one else seemed to be

sitting here. Miriam lookedaround for a waiter, thenturned back to Vera. “VeraMassie,” she said. “I can’tbelieveit.”“VeraLangella,”Verasaid.

“I thought of hyphenating it,but I never much cared forthe name Massie anyway.Frankly,Iwasgladtohaveanexcuse toditchmylastnamewhenIgotmarried.”“Well,I’mnotMiriamFeyn

anymore, either. I tried, but

after a while, it was just toomuch trouble to keep tellingpeople my last name wasFeyn and notLoewe. Finallygave up when my daughterstarted kindergarten. Herteacherkeptcallingme‘Mrs.Loewe,’andseemedtoresentitwhenItriedtocorrecther.”Vera smiled. “You have a

daughter.”“A son, too.” Miriam

glanced toward the Canal.The traffic had been heavy

only a few moments ago.Nowthebroadwaterwaywasquieterandevenemptierthanithadbeenatdawn,whenshehad looked out from herwindow to see shards ofgolden light dancing on thestillgreenwater.“Irememberwhen you used to say you’dlivehereandhaveagondolierasalover.”“Yeah,andthatIwasgoing

to live in apalazzo. Afraid Ididn’t manage either the

palazzoorthegondolier.”Miriam could see her hotel

roomwindowfromhere.Shelifted her head, thinking shehad seen Alan lookingoutside.Shenoticedthenthatthe vendors in the open areadid not seem to be doingmuch business; the knots oftourists buying marionettes,postcards, and maps haddisappeared.“I didn’t manage much of

anything,”Miriam said. “I’m

a claims manager for aninsurance company, and myhusband’s a builder andcontractor—heownshisownbusiness. He’s in our room,calling his lawyer, and hewon’t tell me what that’sabout, so it probably meanshe’sdoingevenworse than Ithink he is. My daughterdroppedoutofcollegetolivewith a guy named Rich whowears his hair in dreadlocksand works at Burger King

while he’s waiting for hisbandtomakeit.Myson’soutatHazeldengoingthroughhissecondthirty-dayprogramforsubstance problems.” Shewondered why she had toldher old friend all of that.Maybe it was because of allthetimesVerahadnursedherthrough her black moods incollege, finally convincingher that things weren’t asbleakastheyseemed.“What do you think of this

guy your daughter’s with?”Veraasked.Miriam thought of Rich’s

gentle brown eyes. “Oh, insome ways, he’s not so bad.He’s reasonably mannerly,and he seems to care aboutJoelle. I just wish he weremore ambitious, and thosedreadlocks—” She sighed.“God, I sound just like mymother when she met Alan.She used to say he’d be sonice-looking if he just did

somethingabouthishair.”“And your daughter?What

areherplans?”“I don’t really know.Right

now,she’sdoingsomesortoffree-lance computer stuff,graphic design and such. Idon’treallyunderstanditthatwell, but shegetspaid for it,howevermodestly.”Verasaid,“Thingscouldbe

alotworse,then.”“I suppose.”Miriam leaned

back inher seat.“I justhope

she doesn’t get pregnant.She’dprobablygoaheadandhave the baby, even if Richbailedout.Thatdoesseemtobethestylenowadays.”“Maybe he wouldn’t bail

out,”Veramurmured.Maybehewouldn’t,Miriam

thought.Shealreadyfeltabitmore kindly toward Rich.“Actually, I’m more worriedabout Jason. He hadeverything going for him, afellowship at Stanford and a

wonderful fiancée, and hethrew it all away. Let mereword that. He snorted andfreebased it away. I think hemighthavediedifafriendofhis hadn’t gotten him intodetox.”“What happened then?”

Veraasked.“He came home. Promised

he’d stay clean. Alan foundhimanapartmentnearusandgave him a part-time job.Within a couple of months,

he was out scoring again. Ifoundoutafterhestolesomeof our silver to pay for thedrugs.”“What did you do?” Vera

asked.“Alanwas so pissed off he

was ready to call the cops.Before he could, Jason cameover,reallywrecked,andsaidhewassorry,thatheknewhewas out of control, and thathe had to go back intotreatment.”

Vera restedone armon thetable. “Then your son wasacknowledging his problem.That’sagoodsign,isn’tit?”“Isupposeso.Heflewback

to Minnesota a week beforeweleftforItaly.Alanrefusedtocancelourtrip.Hefiguredwewerebetteroff taking theopportunity to travel whileJasonwassafelyinHazelden.Godknowshowwe’regoingto pay for everything whenwegethome.We’llprobably

be paying off this trip alonefor years, assumingwedon’tgobankruptfirst.”“At least you’ll have had

it,”Verasaid.“Oh, yes.” Miriam could

notkeep thebitternessoutofhervoice.“We’llrememberitevery time the Visa billarrives.Andthere’llstillbealot of sights we’ll miss,because there just isn’t thetimetoseeeverything.”“You know what I always

say?” Vera lifted her armsandpulledherlonghairbackfrom her face with bothhands, exactly as sheused todoincollege.“Youshouldn’ttry to see and do everything,nomatterhowmuchtimeyouhave. You should alwaysleave something for whenyoucomebackagain.”Miriam’s mouth twisted.

“What if you know you’llnevercomeback?”“You shouldn’t look at it

thatway,Miri.Itusedtohelpmewhen I’d tell myself thatI’d come back to dosomethingIhadn’tdone, thatI’d left unfinished, even if Iknew the chances wereagainstit.WhatdidIhavetolosebyhoping?”Miriam shook her head.

“That’stheworst thingaboutgetting older, losing hope. Iused to think it was otherthings, getting creaky andarthriticandgrayandjustnot

having your physical andmental shit together the wayyou did when you wereyounger, but it isn’t. It’sknowing that nothing’s evergoing to get any better, thatyou’re just going to dragyourselfthroughlifeuntilyoufinally cash in your chips,that all the things you hopedmight happen aren’t evergoingtohappenandthatyourwhole life was probably fornothing. Hell, I’m almost

fiftyyearsold,andwhathaveI got to show for it? Nowonder Jason and Joelle aresoconfused.Whyshouldtheylook forward to anythingwhen they see their parentsgoingdownthetubes?”“Are you going down the

tubes?”Veraasked.“Alan won’t talk about his

business. He used to discussitallthetimewithme.Allwedonowisworryaboutmoneyand wonder month to month

howwe’regoing togetby—we’re in so much debt nowthateverythingcouldcave inon us tomorrow. I keepwaiting for him to say hewantsadivorce,even thoughwe can’t really afford one.We’renotgoodforeachotherany more. We’d probablybothbebetteroffalone.”Verahadopenedsomething

inside her.Miriam could notstoptalking.Shespokeoftheconstant financial pressures

of the business and theirchildren, pressures sooverwhelming that she andAlan rarely talked of muchelse. She spoke of how theytore at each other, of howtheir friends were starting,very surreptitiously, to avoidseeingthemquiteasoften,ofthe times she and Alan hadgone out and their bitternesshad pushed them into angryarguments andpublic scenes,of how horrified she was at

someofthethingsshesaidtohimevenwhenshecouldnotstopsayingthem.“Oh, Miri,” Vera said.

“Don’t you understand?That’swhy I’mhere, to helpyou.”Miriam swallowed,

struggling to control herself.She must have beenunloading on her old friendfor a good half-hour at least.She peered at her watch; ithad been only a little after

eightwhenshe left thehotel.Now it was barely eight-ten.The Grand Canal was stillempty of boat traffic, thenearest arched bridgeabandoned by the touristhordes. A gondola was tiedup across the way, thegondolier resting against hislong pole, so still he did notseem to be breathing. Shecouldalmostbelieve that sheand her friend were alone inthesinkingcity.

Perhaps she was having anervous breakdown. She hadfelt on the verge of one forquite a while. She turnedtoward the booths sellingsouvenirs,butsawnovendorsthere. She was imagining it,that everyone in Venice hadvanished in the way shewished that her troubleswould.Vera was sitting with her

leftanklerestingonherrightknee, the way she had when

theyusedtositaroundin theStudent Union. Strange,Miriam thought, that Verashould look so much as shewould have expected her tolook, older but basicallyunchanged. Vera would nothave cut her hair as Miriamhadandcoloredittohidethegray,orputonablazerandapairoftailoredslackswithanelasticwaistbandbecauseshewastoooldandcarriedafewtoo many pounds to wear

jeans.“Miri,” Vera said, “you

loved your husband once,didn’tyou?”“More than anything. We

weren’t just lovers, we werepals,bestfriends.He’dgetsoannoyedwhenhehadtoworklate. I’d put the kids to bedand have supper with him,even if it was ten-thirty atnight, just so we’d have thattimetogether.”“Miri, he needs you. You

need him, too. Don’t let abunch of bullshit get in yourway.”“That’sexactlythewayyou

used toput itwhenever Igotdepressed.” She had beengoing on and on aboutherself, never even askingVera about her life. All sheknewwas that her old friendhad married a man with thelast name of Langella. Shesuddenly remembered thepale-haired woman she had

glimpsed the night before,fromthegondola.“That was you,” Miriam

said,“lastnight,inoneofthehouses along that side canal.Everything stopped, and Ithought Iwas going to get amigraine, and then I sawyou.”Vera was on her feet. She

seemedtranslucent,asthoughshe were an image about toflickerout.“Ihavetogo.”“I’mimaginingyou.Ireally

am going crazy.” Miriamcould see the row of flowersbehind Vera through herfriend’s hazy form. “Idreamed you up, and nowyou’refadingaway.”“Go to your husband. I’ll

seeyoulater,Ipromise.”BeforeMiriamcouldspeak,

voices around her rose in aroar. Crowds were throngingpast the nearby kiosks.Miriam gripped the edge ofthe table, suddenly

disoriented as she lookedaround her. There was acrowd on the nearest archedbridge, and people weremillingaroundinfrontofthetrainstationandwaitingnearthe docks for the vaporetto.The pathways on either sideofthecanalhadrapidlyfilledwithstrollers.WhenMiriam turned back,

thechairacrossfromherwasempty; Vera was gone. Shesquinted, but could not see

Vera’s red T-shirt anywhereamongthecrowds.

Alan said nothing about hiscall toBernieas they left thehotel. She could not tell himabout Vera, about the long-lost friendwhohadappearedout of nowhere anddisappeared just asmysteriously, who couldapparently block out soundandmakeeveryoneinVenice

disappear from view. Hewould tell her that she wasgoing nuts and then accuseher of trying to drive himcrazy.Itwasalmostarelieftothink that she might becracking up. Having abreakdownmightbetheonlyescape from her problemsthatshecouldmanage.Miriam studied the map of

vaporetto routes anddiscovered that both lines 1and2would take themalong

theGrandCanal tothedocksnear Saint Mark’s Square.“Line 1 is the local,” sheexplained.“Let’s take it anyway,”

Alansaid.“Noneedtorush.”They bought their tickets

and boarded the passengerboatat thedocksbythetrainstation, managing to slipthrough the knots ofpassengers and get seats inthe prow. Alan seemedcontent to enjoy the view as

the vaporetto made its slowprogress along the Canal,crossingfromsidetosideandbacking water as it made itsstops. By the time theyreached theRialto,Alanwassmilingashewatchedpeoplebargaining over the prices offlowers,fruits,andfishintheopen-air markets near thehigh arched bridge. Maybe,Miriam thought, Bernie hadgiven him some good newsforachange.

Hewasstillsmilingastheywalked from the landingtowardthePiazzaSanMarco,takingherarmastheyenteredthe huge open square. Mobsof tourists were alreadyswarming through the squareas hundreds of pigeonsswoopedabovethem;Miriamducked as one bird barelymissed flying into her. Alanconsultedhismaptogetthemthrough the narrow streetsandoverasmallbridgetothe

glass showroom. She hadbeen prepared to resist thesalespeople there, but Alanended up buying earrings forJoelle, a necklace of glassbeads for her, and arrangingfor the shipment of aridiculously expensive hand-blown glass sculpture of twolong-necked birds thatMiriamhadadmired.“Youcertainlyturnedintoa

spendthrift,”shewhisperedasthey made their way past a

group of Japanese touristsjust entering the showroom.“Exactlywherearewegoingto put that sculptureanyway?”“We’llfindaspot.Callitan

investment. If things gettough, I can probably sell itformorethanIpaid.”His good mood held

throughoutthetourinsidetheBasilica San Marco andduringtheirlunch,whichtheyate at an outdoor table at an

overpricedrestaurant inSaintMark’s Square. Theyexchanged vacuous butpleasantcommonplacesaboutthebeautyoftheBasilicaSanMarco and reminisced aboutall the art they had seen inFlorence and the VaticanMuseums. Alan lit hercigarettewith a flourish afterthemealandthenlightedoneforhimself.Heabruptly fell silent, then

slumpedoverthetablewitha

sigh. When he sat up again,hisfacewassallowunderhistan. “Are you all right?”Miriamasked.“Just some indigestion,” he

muttered, crushing out hiscigarette. “Miri, what wouldyou say if I gave up thebusiness,hadDarrellbuymeout?”“What?”“That’s one option. I could

subcontract with him, so Iwouldn’tactuallybequitting.

He probably couldn’t do it,though—he’s about as shortof money as we are.” Hepulled his pack of cigarettesfrom his jacket pocket, thenput them back withoutlighting one. “I could tryselling to someone else, butthere probably wouldn’t beanytakers,orelseI’dhavetotaketoobigaloss.Imightbeabletogetanotherloan,butalot of that’d have to gotoward what’s coming due

now. Or there’s alwaysChapter 11. All I know is Ican’tgoonthewayI’vebeengoing.”Hewasgivingup.Thatwas

whathewas tellinghernow.Hewassayingthathewasnolonger willing to hang onuntil timesgotbetterbecausehe no longer believed thatthey would get better. Theywould be cutting back andliving from month to monthandtryingtofendoffdisaster

untiltheyhadnothingleft.Hesaid, “Ihaven’tdecided

anything yet. We’re stilldiscussingtheoptions.”“Why the hell did you buy

that glass sculpture, then?”shesaidbeforeshecouldstopherself. “Why the hell didyou pile up even more debtforthistrip?”“Because, at this point, a

few thousand lousy bucksisn’t going to put us muchdeeper into the hole.” His

expression softened. “It’snotjust that, Miri. I wanted togive you something now,while I still could.”Alan gotup slowly. “Finish yourcoffee. I have to go changesomemoremoney.”“Don’t change too much

money,” she said. “Youmight just be tempted tospendevenmoreifyoudo.”Hewalked away. The only

reason he had been pleasantup to now was so that he

couldspringhisnewsonher,histalkabouthisoptions,hisadmission that he had failed.Miriam stirred her coffee,feelingrageandremorse.

From the Bridge of Sighs inthe Doge’s Palace, Miriampeered through the grille attheharbor.Ontheisleacrossthat lagoon, she could see achurch of red brick andmarble, a false promise of

sanctuary. The Bridge ofSighs, she had read in herguide, had been named forthe prisoners who sighed astheywere ledacross it to theDoge’sprisons,knowing thatthis would be their lastglimpse of the lagoon. Itwould probably be close toherlastglimpseoftheharboras well, since they wouldhave only two more days inVenice.The enclosed bridge led

themtoadarkandbarestoneroom. A group of Japanesetourists were there, takingphotos of one another. Shefollowed Alan back acrossthe bridge. “What anostentatious display ofwealth,” she said as theymade their way through anornate hallway to an exit.“And those paintings!They’re gorgeous, but myGod. ‘Doge So-and-SoWorships the Virgin Mary.’

‘DogeSo-and-SoAcceptstheTribute of Venice’s SubjectCities.’‘DogeSo-and-SoandHis Son Adoring the HolyEucharist’ and lookingmighty damned full ofthemselves as they do. Allthey needed was ‘Doge So-and-So Kicks Some SeriousButt’ and ‘Venice AcceptstheTributeoftheUniverse.’“Alan usually chuckled at

her witticisms, even whenthey were not particularly

funny. As long as they werecracking jokes or makingironic remarks, they wouldnotbefighting.Alanwasnotsmiling;hedidnotevenseemtobelistening.“Whattimeisit?”heasked

astheywentoutside.Miriam glanced at her

watch.“Almostfour.”“I’m not feeling too well,

Miri.MaybeI’llheadbacktothehotel.”“Oh.” She repressed the

comments rising to her lipsabout how it had been hisideaforthemtotakethistripand now he wasn’t evenmakingthemostofitandthathe couldhave taken a nap athome for free. “What areyoursymptoms?”“I think lunch really

disagreed with me.” Hestepped closer to her. “Isn’tanything important. I justneed to rest. Wander aroundsomemoreifyouwant—you

cancomebackwhenit’stimeto get dressed for dinner.Reservation’snotuntilnine.”His brown eyes lookedwatery and bloodshot. Hisvoice sounded as though hewaspleadingwithher.“Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll

meetyoulater.”He made his way through

the crowds on the walkway,passedarowofgondolas,andmoved toward the vaporettodock and ticket booths.

Miriam wandered backtoward Saint Mark’s,wondering what to do now.She could walk along theGrandCanaltotheRialtoanddo some window-shoppingthere. She could have riddenasfarastheRialtowithAlan,but was afraid they wouldhave been lashing at eachother again before they gotthatfar.“Miri.”Miriam lifted her head.

Verawascomingtowardher,

still in her T-shirt and jeans.“I told you I’d see youagain.” Vera reached out totakeherhands.“Vera.”Miriamclaspedher

friend’s hands tightly. Thiswoman could not be anapparition; she was here, assolid as Miriam herself.“We’ve been sightseeing.”Shewasdeterminedthistimenot to let Vera see herdistress. “We did SaintMark’s Basilica and the

Doge’s Palace.” She wouldhavetomakeexcusesforherhusband’s absence. “Alanwent back to our room. Hehas indigestion from lunch. Ihope you get to meet himeventually.” Her voice hadrisenslightly.“Then you have some

time,”Verasaid.“Oh,Ihavealotoftime.If

Alan isn’t feeling wellenough to have dinner, Iguess I’ll have even more

time.”Vera slipped her arm

through Miriam’s. “Whydon’tyoucomewithme?”“Comewithyouwhere?”“You’llsee.”They walked toward the

landing. For a place that hadbeen swarming with peopleonlya fewmomentsago, thewalkway along the harborwas surprisingly empty. Outintheharbor,twolargecabincruisers were embedded in

the water, brought to a stopby the waves that hadseemingly stiffened aroundtheir hulls. It was happeningto her again, the disorientingand yet welcome sensationthattimehadstoppedandthatshe andVerawere somehowapart from the rest of theworld.“What’s happening?”

Miriamasked.“Youmustknow.I’vecome

to help you. I’myour friend,

Miri,andyouneedmenow.”Veragesturedatashinyblackmotorboat. “Get in. Thoughtyou might like to see theoutlying islands.Youcangetthere on the vaporetto lines,butthis’llbeeasier.”Miriam hesitated, then

climbed into the boat. Veragot in next to her and satdown in front of the steeringwheel. The motor beganputtering almost instantly, asiftheboatwerestartingitself.

Vera took them out of theharbor toward a broad canalthat ran between islands,slowingdownastheyreachedtheopenwaterofthelagoon.The boat slowed still moreuntilitseemedthattheywerehardlymoving at all.Miriamlooked back. Venice was apastel city adrift on a gold-fleckedsea.She could not recall seeing

the other woman actuallystart theboatorputanykeys

intotheignition,althoughshenoticed that a key was therenow.Beinginastrangeplaceand seeing someone she hadnever expected to see herehad disoriented her. MaybeVera’s home was on one ofthe other islands. PerhapsVera was waiting until theywerethere,intheplacewhereshe lived, before she toldMiriam about her life andwhat had brought her toVenice. Miriam clung to

those strands of rationalexplanation for what washappeningtoher.“That’sthecemetery,”Vera

said,waving towardadistantisland on which a churchstood. “Some famous peopleare buried there. You canhear thewater lapping at theisland when you’re amongthegravestones.Troubleis,ifyour survivors don’t keepupthe payments on yourgravesite, they dig you up

after fifty years and dumpyou somewhere else. TheVenetians always find waystomakemoremoney.”“Iwishsomeof thatability

would rub off on me,”Miriamsaid.“I used to wish the same

thing,” Vera said. “I hadsome pretty desperate timesafter we graduated fromcollege.ThenIendedupwitha fair amount of money andfoundoutthathavingitdidn’t

matterasmuchasIthoughtitwould.”“I’ve been finding out that

not having it matters morethanIeverimagined.”Vera had slowed their boat

nearly to a crawl, followingthe darker blue waters of achannel through the greenlagoon. In the distance, afisherman with a net wasstandingtohiskneesinwaternexttohisboat.“Water seems awfully

shallow,”Miriamsaid.“Most of the lagoon’s like

that. All the boats have totake certain routes to keepfrom running aground, andthey have to go slowly, too.That’s partly because thewater isn’tdeep,but it’salsoto keep from damaging seawalls like that onewith a lotof waves from boats goingtoo fast.” Vera pointed at alongstonewallborderingthechurch on another distant

island.Miriamwonderedwhythis nautical traffic wasnowhereinevidencenow.Nootherboatswereonthewaterexcept theirs, no cruisers, novaporetti.“Ishouldhavekeptupwith

you,Miri,”Verawent on. “Icouldhaveat leastwritten toyou.”“Isentaweddinginvitation

toyourparentsandtoldthemtoforwardittoyou.”Verasmiled.“Theydid,and

I actually thought of going.But I couldn’t afford theplaneticket,andIhadn’tseenyou for almost three yearsand—well,Ifiguredalothadchanged.”“You probably couldn’t

believe I’d gotten soconventional,”Miriamsaid.“Thatwaspartofit,Iguess.

I was going to write you aletter,butItoreituphalfwaythrough. My life wasn’texactly in order back then.

Then I thought, well, there’splenty of time, I can alwaysgetintouchlater.”Ahead lay an island of

brightly painted houses, longdrab buildings that lookedlike factories, and aprecipitously leaningbelltower. “I drifted for awhile,” Vera continued. “I’dget a job and tell myself I’dwork on my art in my sparetime. Of course I never did.I’ve been a receptionist, a

nurseryschoolteacher,acaseworker, a proofreader, and afewother things.I livedwitha guy and we broke up, andthen I lived with somebodyelse, and that ended, too.Basically I was just waitingfor my real life to begin, ormaybe just waiting to growup.”“Were you unhappy?”

Miriamasked.Vera shook her head. “No,

but I was frustrated. The

whole excuse for living thatway was to get my paintingdone,andIwasn’tdoingit. Ihad to keep pretending Iwould, because otherwise itwasjustawastedlife,really.”They had passed the island

with the leaning belltower.The light was fading, andMiriam wondered how closetheyweretotheirdestination.“Then a lot of things

happened.” Vera rested onehand across the wheel. “My

fatherdied,andIlostmyjob,theoneIhadthen,and—well,tomake a long story short, Istarted doing freelancecommercial work and usingmyfreetimeforpaintingandtaking classes. I wasn’texactly a great success, but Iwas happy. Had my firstshow in a local bank.” Shewrinkled her nose. “It was astart.ThenIwonaprizeinalocalartshow.That’swhereImetAl,myhusband.”

“Sounds romantic,”Miriamsaid.“He’dwanderedintotheart

show bymistake on hiswayto a Chamber of Commercething in the same building.”Vera shook back her longgray hair. “We got marriedalmost eight years ago. I’vebeen really happy with him.We tried for kids, but Icouldn’t have them, and atleast we had each other.Never set the art world on

fire, but I did a couple ofshows inNewYorkgalleriesand got part-time gigs in thelocal schools and communitycollege. I got some criticalattention.Icouldalwayshope—”Hervoicetrailedoff.Ahead of their boat

stretched empty water, stilland gray, and the sun hadtaken on a strange metallicglow. In the distance, anindistinct dark shape sat onthe horizon. Miriam glanced

at the other womanapprehensively. It suddenlyseemed the height ofrecklessness to have gotteninto this boat with Vera, tohavecomethisfaroutonthelagoon.“Alsoldhisbusinessa few

months back,” Veramurmured. “Our planwas togotoalltheplaceswealwayswanted to seeandneverhad,VeniceandParisandIstanbuland so on.The dealwas this

—we’dstayinoneplaceuntilwe felt like moving on, andthenwe’dgotothenextcity.Venicewasthefirststop.”Miriamsaid,“Soeverything

workedout.”“Youcouldputitthatway.”

Vera turned toward her andrested one hand onMiriam’sarm. “I’ve had somehappiness.”“And how long do you

thinkyou’llbehere?”Vera drew away. Miriam

saw now that they wereapproaching an island. Achurchofrusset-coloredbricksatjustabovealowseawall;beyond the church wereclusters of houses paintedgreenandredandpurpleandyellow. The landing was along wooden dock, but noboatsweretiedupthere.“Where are we?” Miriam

asked. Vera did not reply.Miriamthoughtofpullingherguide and maps from her

purse to check on thelocation, then peered at herwatch. Four-fifteen, whichwas impossible; theyhad leftthe pier just below SaintMark’s not long past four.Miriamsquintedandsawthatthehandmarkingthesecondshadstopped.“Damn this watch,” she

muttered.“Itjustdiedonme.Battery must be defective. Ijusthaditreplacedbeforewelefthome.”

Vera said, “I should havewritten toyou. I shouldhavebeen a better friend than Iwas. You could have used areally good friend, I think,someonetohelpyoutreasurewhat you have, keep youfrom tormenting yourself.”Shesteeredtheboatsmoothlythroughthewatertothedock.“Goahead.I’lltieuptheboatand follow you. That paththere will take you to thesquare.”

Miriam climbed out of theboat. Darkness had come,even though it could not bethat late; the shadows weredeep under the broad-limbedtrees that stood along thecobblestoned footpath. Shefollowed the path up thegently sloping hill until sheglimpsed the empty space ofa town square above. Shepicked up her pace, and thesilence seemed to thickenaroundher.

She entered the square. Achurchofpale stonestood inonecorner;three-storyhouseswith shuttered windowssurrounded the square onthree sides.A tiered fountainin which no water wasrunningstoodinthecenterofthe square near a flagpolewithoutaflag.Therewerenosigns of people, no signs oflife.“Vera,”shesaid,andtheair

seemed to swallow theword.

“Vera!”Theemptinessoftheplace frightened her. “Vera!”Shelookedaroundfranticallyfor the other woman. Whyhad her friend brought herhere? She ran toward thechurch, wondering if shemightfindpeoplethere.“Miri!” Someone was

calling her, someone at adistance. “Miri!” Sherecognizedthevoicenow.She hurried toward the

voice, out of the square and

past a long row of houses.Alan was standing near anarrowcanal;heheldouthisarmsassherushedtohim.“Miri.” He pressed her to

him; she hugged him tightly,feelingsuddenly thatshehadto cling to him, then lookedintohisface.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”

shegasped.“Howdidyougethere?”Hesmiled,thewayheused

to before his not-quite-smile

had become a habit. “I’mhere now. Can’t you justacceptthat?”Verahadarrangedthis.That

was the only rationalexplanation. She and Alanhadplannedthisinsecretandhe had pretended he wasn’tfeelingwell so that he couldgettothisislandaheadofher.Shecouldnotbeimaginingit;he was here, solid and real.“You should have told me,”shesaid.“Youdidn’thaveto

—”He took her arm. They

strolled along the canal, pastthe few gondolas tied upthere;shehadnotknownthatthereweregondolason theseoutlying islands. “Veracertainly fooledme,”Miriammurmured. “I never wouldhave guessed. How did youplotall this?Whenyouwenttochangemoney,I’llbet.DidyouknowVerawas living inVenice all along?” He said

nothing. “You saw her, too.You’ve met her. She talkedyou into coming here andsurprising me. That meansI’mnotgoingcrazyafterall.”Alan slowed his pace. “I

haven’t been treating youwell lately,” he said. “Iwanted this trip to besomethingspecialforus,sortof a new start. Or, if thingsdon’twork out businesswise,something we canremember.”

She clutched his armmoretightly.Hehadonhisfavoritedark blue cashmere sweaterover his shirt. She did notrecall seeing him pack thepullover, or the navy blueslackshewaswearing,either.Theyhadbothdecidedonhispin-striped suit, his whitedinnerjacketandblackslacksforeveningwear,andbrown,beige, and tan jackets andpantsfor therestof thetime.She remembered the details

because they had ended uparguingevenovertheclotheshe would take, and he hadinsisted on throwing in twopairs of jeans at the lastminute.“Footlooseand fancy free,”

he went on. “That’s what Ifigured on formyself. NeverthoughtI’dseriouslyconsidergetting married until I metyou, and then I knew I justdidn’twanttogothroughtherest of my life without you.

Knew that two hours after Imetyou.”“Two hours?” Miriam

smiled.“Ithoughtittookyoutwo days to fall in lovewithme.”“I told you it tookme two

days because I didn’t wantyou thinking I was too rash,or rushed into things. That’swhy I waited a week beforeproposing,too.”He had waited barely a

week. She had insisted on

living with him for a whilefirst, tomake sure theyweretruly compatible and thingswould work out, and it hadnot evenoccurred toher thatmovinginwithamanshehadknownforonlyaweekmightbeprecipitous.Theyhadbeenmarriedsixmonths later,andshehad felt noqualmsaboutthat, either, despite hermother’sdoubtsaboutAlan’snewbusiness and her friendsat work who felt that

marriage was an outmodedinstitution. They had to bedoing the right thing.Otherwise,theywouldnotbefeeling so much for eachother, would not have madethe decision to share theirlivessoquickly.Often she had thought of

her early self as naive anddeluded and too trusting.Now she felt as though shehad seen things clearly then,and that her vision had

become more clouded andblurredwiththeyears.“Wewerehappy then,”she

said. “Even with all theproblems—”“Andthenthekidscame—”“AndthenIwassodamned

exhausted all the time thatthere wasn’t time to thinkaboutwhetherIwashappyornot.” Joelle had inheritedherownfather’slankyframeandhisdarkhair,whileJasonhadMiriam’s blue eyes and her

father’s broad, pleasant face.Everyone had alwayscomplimented her on hergood-lookingchildren.“Wehadsomegoodtimes,”

Alan said. “I think Iappreciated them more later,when I’d be rememberingthem, than when they wereactuallyhappening.”He led her away from the

canal toward a narrowpassageway that ran betweenbuildings. The doors were

closed,thewindowsshutteredor their curtains drawn. Shewanted to ask Alan how hehad gotten here,why no onewason this island,whyVerahadgonetoallthattroubletogethertothisdesertedplace,and then she gazed into hiscomposed, serene face andforgotherquestions.A doorwas suddenly flung

open. Miriam stepped back,drawing closer to Alan. Shegazed into a small sitting

room,whereayoungmansatat a table; the pretty youngwomanbythedoorgiggled.“Buona sera,” Alan

murmured.“Buona sera,” the young

woman replied. She waswearinga long reddress andholding amask in one hand.She lifted the mask to herfaceandtiltedherhead.Miriamcouldnowhear the

soundofvoices.Attheendofthepassageway,theycameto

a broad cobblestoned streetand found it filling withpeople. Couples, a few inmasks, strolled arm in armand stopped to peer intobrightly lighted shopwindows. The youngerwomenwere incolorful longdresses, the older ones insubduedshadesofpurpleanddark blue. Most of the menwereinblackpantsandloosewhiteshirtswith fullsleeves.Theyhadtobelocals;noone

was wearing the touristcostume of jeans, T-shirts,and athletic shoes. Perhapsthis was some obscureVenetian festival the travelagent and guide books hadneglectedtomention.They stopped by one shop

window. Behind the panes,two terra cotta marionettesdanced. Themalemarionettetook the hand of the femalepuppet and bowed. A dark-haired young woman was

manipulating the strings; shecaught Miriam’s eye andsmiled.Evening had come. People

were sittingatoutdoor tablesand wandering insiderestaurants while otherslaughingly disappeared intoalleys. Alan stopped at adisplay of lace outside oneshop, fingered the delicatework of one shawl, thendraped it over Miriam’sshoulders.

She shook her head. “It’sbeautiful, but it’ll cost toomuch.”A slender blonde woman

had come out of the shop.“Quanta?” Alan asked. Sheanswered him in Italian, hemurmured something else,and Miriam saw their handstouchforamoment.“It’sagift,”Alansaidashe

took Miriam’s arm again.Before she could speak, hehad led her toward a small

table outside one of therestaurants.The waiter brought them

glasses of a sparkling wine,andthenawhitewinewithanunfamiliar label. Miriam letAlan order the food. Theynibbled at mushroom tarts,bean soup with pasta, andcalamari. The wine wasmaking Miriam lightheaded.ShelaughedasAlanspokeofthe early days of theirmarriage,oftheyearsintheir

cramped apartment and firsthousebeforetheyhadmovedinto the one he had built forthem.Memorieswerespillingout of her, too—Jason’svaledictorian’s speech to hishigh school class, Joelle’shome run for the girls’Softballteamduringthestatechampionship game, themorning during their trip toCancun when they had sentthe kids down to the beach,locked the door, and made

loveuntillunchtime.Theirwaiterbroughtthema

concoction of chocolate,cream cheese, and cake fordessert. Alan stirred hiscoffee. “I used to tell youthen,” he said, “that we’dlookbackonthoseyearswithsome fondness, even theroughtimes.”“Yeah.” Miriam leaned

towardhim.“Funny—Idon’teven remember how panickyIgotwhenIwastryingtoget

a job and couldn’t find one.You remember, after Joellewas in nursery school. Tookmethreemonths,andwehadto keep holding off the billcollectors, and all I reallyremember now is howecstatic IwaswhenFreedomMutualhiredme.”“I kept looking forward,”

Alan said. “That’swhat keptme going—that and you. Ithink I could handle thingsnow if things were right

between us. I could faceanythingthen.”Herheadwasclearing.She

suddenly wondered whereVerawas.Verahadwantedtoleave them alone, to settlethingsbetween them, tohavea romantic evening on thislittle island. Why? What didVera want with them? Whyhad she gone to all thistrouble for a friend she hadnotseenforyearsuntiltoday?Alan got up. He was

quickly at her side, helpingher out of her chair. She didnot see if he had left anymoney for the waiter as heled her along the street. Theshops were closing; womenwere carrying displays oflace, glass, and marionettesinside and locking the doors.The tables outside therestaurants had beenabandoned.AlongthecanalwhereAlan

had been waiting for her,

gondolaswereglidingsilentlytoward the open water. Herhandrosetoherneckandsherealized that she must haveleft the lace shawl at theirtable.“We’dbettergoback.Iforgotthatbeautifulshawl.”“Itwasagift,Miri.”“Just because you didn’t

havetopayforit—”“You can’t take anything

away from here. Theywon’tletyou.”“Are we going to Vera’s

house?” Miriam asked. Hedid not reply. “Does she livehere,onthisisland?Howdidyougethere,anyway?”“Miri,” he whispered, “I

need you. Don’t leave me,”and let go of her arm. Shereachedforhimandclutchedair. She spun around; he haddisappeared.“Alan!” she cried out.

“Alan!”Shehurriedalongthecanal, not seeing himanywhere in the darkness,

then ran toward the square.“Alan! Alan!” She keptcalling his name until tearsfilledhereyes.Lightsweregoingoninthe

housesaroundthesquare.Shelooked up at the nearestwindows and saw peoplegazing down at her. Thesquare looked smaller, thebuildings around it shabbier.The flagpole, painted red,was still there; the fountainhaddisappeared.

Two men were comingtowardher,oneinadarkblueuniform,theotherinastripedshirt and loose dark pants.“Signora,” the man in thestripedshirtsaid.“Mio sposo,” she said

frantically. “Signor Loewe.”She did not know enoughItalian to make herselfunderstood.“Helpme,please.Per favore. My husband—”Shepaused.“WhereamI?”“You do not know,

Signora?”themaninuniformsaid.Miriamstruggled tocontrol

herself. “Vera Langella,” shesaid. “She’s the womanwhobroughtmehere.Wheredoesshelive?”The uniformed man shook

his head and thrust out hishands. “I do not know thename.”A joke. It was all a cruel

joke. Vera had thought it upand talked Alan into playing

along. All the tender wordshad been only another bitterjest. Maybe these men werein on it, too, and if theyweren’t, they might assumeshewasdementedifshewentonandonaboutherhusbandandherfriend.Shewouldnotgo along with this horriblejokeanylonger.“How do I get back to

Venice?”sheasked.Themaninuniformpointed

in the direction of the

landing. “The vaporetto,” hereplied.Shehurrieddowntheslope.

Vera’s boat had vanished.Out on the water, she couldsee the lighted decks of anapproachingvaporetto.

The boat took her to anotherisland. She looked at herwatch, which was runningagain, telling her that it wasonly seven o’clock. She

consulted her schedule,questionedthepeoplewaitingon the landing with her, andfoundoutthatshewasontheislandofMuranoandthatthenumber5wouldgetherbackto Venice itself. That waterbus tookher toanunfamiliarlanding. An older womanwho spoke English pointedher in the direction of theGrandCanal.She walked there and

caught a vaporetto to the

landing near the hotel. Theboattrafficwasasheavyasithadbeenduring theday,andit seemed that flotillas ofgondoliers were ferryingpassengers along the GrandCanal. People were stillroaming the streets, loadingup on souvenirs, or finishingcoffee and wine at outsidetables.Asshecameintothelobby,

thedeskclerklookedup,andthenamaninadarksuitwas

bearingdownonherfromtheleft. “Mrs. Loewe.” He bentforward from the waist, thentook her hand. “They cameforyourhusband.”Miriamtensed.“Who?”“They took him, the

ambulance. He is inl’ospedale, the hospital. Hewasinthelobby,andthenhefell—” Miriam hung on tohim tightly. “He came to thedesk. I heard him say thisword, something like ‘Miri,’

andthenhefell.”

The hotel manager walkedher down to the docks. Apowerboat was there, onemuch like the boat Vera andshe had been in thatafternoon. The hospitallooked like a Renaissancepalazzo from the outside.Inside, stretchers were linedagainst the walls and white-jacketed men, nurses, and

nuns moved swiftly throughthecorridors.Asshefollowedthe orderly who hadmet herattheentrance,Miriamheardthesoundofelectronicbeepsand then a voice over thepublic address systemsummoningaphysician.A console beeped next to

Alan; an intravenous needlewas inhisarmandwires ranfromhisbodytotheconsole.Aman,apparentlyasleep,layon a bed next to Alan’s; he

was also hooked up to aconsole. The other two bedswere empty; a small marblestatue of the Virgin Marystood at the other end of theroom.Sheliftedahandtohermouth.“SignoraLoewe.”Amanin

aphysician’swhitecoatcametoward her. “It will be allright.” He squinted at herthroughwire-rimmedglasses;heseemedyoung,maybestillin his twenties, with light

brown hair and a closelytrimmed beard. “Yourhusband was lucky. He wasbrought here immediately. Itis a myocardial—” Hepaused. “A heart attack, buthewillrecover.”She leaned over her

husband and touched hishand. Alan opened his eyes.“Miri.”“You’ll be all right. The

doctorjustsaidso.”“Went to the lobby. Idon’t

knowwhy,Iwasthinking—”His throat moved as heswallowed. “I was thinkingabout you. Thought of goingovertothevaporettolanding,to meet you, tell you I wassorry—Iwas dreaming aboutyou.Wewerewalkingaroundin—I think itwas somekindof village. Wanted to staythere, and knew I couldn’t. Ineeded you, I was trying tohangon—”“It’s all right.” She moved

her hand gently over his. “Ican’t lose you, Alan. I loveyou.”His mouth curved up; he

wassmiling,ashehadontheisland. “You won’t.” Heclosedhiseyes.

She found the young doctorout in the hallway. Heintroduced himself as Dr.Palmieri and led her to analcove with two chairs, a

sofa, and a crucifix hangingonthewall.Heexplainedthather husband could be flownhome in a week to ten days,thatitcouldhavebeenworse,that if he had been alone inhis room instead of in thehotel lobby among peoplewhen he collapsed, wherehelp could quickly besummoned forhim,hemightnothavesurvived.“Hemustseeacardiologist

when he is home,” Dr.

Palmieri said. “It may be heneeds more treatment, but Icanassureyou—”“Thank you,” Miriam

murmured.“Grazie.”“I am much relieved

myself,” the physician saidsoftly.“Only twoweeksago,Iwascalledtotendtoanothertourist, an American likeyourself. That was not sogood an outcome. She hadcancer—it had spread to herlymph nodes and internal

organs.Herhusbandsaidshehad been afflicted for almostfour years. They weretraveling on what he calledtheir farewell tour, becausethey knew—” He lookedawayforamoment.“Shewasa strong woman. She wouldnotadmitherillness.Shesaidthat I had better put hertogether because she had notbeen to see the PeggyGuggenheim collection hereyet. Shewas gone that same

day.SoIamgladthiswillnotalso be the case with yourhusband,Signora.”Miriam bowed her head.

“So am I.” She would notlose Alan. Nothing elseseemed to matter at themoment.“SignoraLangella.”Miriam

realizedthatshehadexpectedto hear her friend’s name.“SignoraVeraLangella.Thatwas what the Americanwoman was called. She was

fighting, but when she wasfinally gone—” Dr. Palmierilet out his breath. “Sheseemedatpeace.”

On the day before theywerescheduled to fly home,Miriam took thevaporetto toSan Michele, the cemeteryisland she had seen fromVera’s boat. Vera had notbeen buried here; Dr.Palmieri had told her that

Vera’shusbandhadtakenherbody back to the States. Butsomehow she felt that herfriend was here, that shemight remain here for awhile.Miriam walked among the

tombstones. Other touristshad come, to gather by thegraves of Pound andDiaghilevandStravinskyandthe other artists buried here.She stoodand listened to thelapping water as she

whispered a thank-you and afarewelltoherfriend.

Afterwordto“Isles”:

“Youdesire toembrace it, tocaress it, to possess it, andfinally a soft sense ofpossessiongrowsupandyourvisit becomes a perpetuallove affair.”SoHenry Jameswrote of Venice, althoughthere are thosewho find thatcity disagreeable. I was toldby one frequent traveler thatpeopleeitheradoreVeniceor

hate it; there is nothing inbetween.WhenIfirstcametoVenice,Ifellinlovewiththeplace.So many writers have

written about Venice thattheir collected works couldform a good-sized library; towrite anything set in Veniceis to know that one isexploring territory alreadyheavily traveled by many ofliterature’s mostaccomplished masters. That

should have been enough toscare me off, but one of mylong-held ambitions as awriterhasbeentowriteaboutthisfragileandbeautifulcity,and “Isles” was a story thatseemed todemandVeniceasitssetting.“Isles”waswrittenduringa

time when, for variousreasons, I was deeplydepressed and almostincapable of functioningnormally. Reaching the end

ofthisstoryandseeingsomehopeforthetwopeopleatitscenter brought me somesolaceaswell.

THESUMMER’SDUST

Andrew was hiding. He saton the roof, his back to thegabledwindows.Hehadbeenthere for only a fewminutesandknewhewouldbefound;thatwasthepoint.He heard a door open

below. “Andrew?” The doorsnappedshut.Hismotherwason the porch; her feetthumped against the wood.

“Andrew?” She would goback inside and find that hewas still near the house;tracing the signal, shewouldlocatehim.Heglancedathisleft wrist. The small bluestone of the Bond winked athim.Thesilverbraceletwasatattletalechain; itwouldgivehimaway.He looked down at the

gutter edging the roof. Theporch’s front steps creaked,andhismother’sblondehead

emerged. A warm breezefeathered her hair as sheglidedalong thepath leadingdownthehill.Fromtheroof,Andrewcouldsee thenearbyhouses.Atthefootofthehill,two kobolds tended the rosegardenthatnestlednearalowstonehouse.Theownerofthehouse had lived in the southfor years, but her smallandroid servants still clippedthe hedges and trimmed thelawn. Each kobold was one

meter tall, and human inappearance. On pleasantevenings, he had seen thelittle people lay a linentablecloth over the table inthe garden and set out thesilverware, taking theirpositions behind the chairs.They would wait silently,small hands crossed overtheirchests,untilitwasnight,when they would clear thetableoncemore.Atrollstoodby the hedge; this creature

was half a meter taller thanthe kobolds. The troll’smisshapen body was bentforward slightly; its longarms hung to the ground,fingertips touching grass. Atnight, the troll would guardthe house. The being’s uglybearded face and scowlwerea warning to anyone whoapproached; the small silverpatchonitsforeheadrevealedthe cybernetic link thatenabledittosummonaid.

Farther down the road, thefacets of a glassy domecaught the sun, and tinybeings of light danced.Andrew’s friend Silas livedtherewithhis fatherBenandseveralSiamesecats.Andrewfrowned as he thought ofSilas and of what his friendwantedtodo.Andrew’s own house was

old.Hismotherhad toldhimit had been built before theTransition. Even with

extensive repairs andadditions to the house, thehomeostat could not run itproperly. The rooms wereusually a bit warm or toocold; the doors made noises;the windows were spottedwithdirt.He watched his mother

wander aimlessly along thepath.Joanhadforgottenhim,as she often did. They couldbe in the same roomand shewould become silent, then

suddenly glance at him, hereyeswidening,asifsheweresurprised to find him stillthere.His father, Dao, was

different;completelyattentivewhenever Andrew wasaround, but content to ignorehim the rest of the time. Hewondered if Daowould everspeaktohimatallifAndrewdidn’tspeakfirst.Hemovedalittle.Hisright

foot shot out and brushed

against a loose shingle.Andrew slid; he grabbed forthewindow sill and held on.The shingle fell, slappingagainst the cement of thepath.Joan looked up. She raised

her hands slowly. “Andrew.”Her voice was loud butsteady.Hepulledhimselfup;he would not fall now. Joanmoved closer to the house.“What are you doing upthere?”

“I’mallright.”She held her arms up.

“Don’tmove.”“I’vegotmylifesuiton.”“I don’t care. Don’t move,

staywhereyouare.”Herfeetpounded on the steps andover the porch. The frontdoor slammed. In a fewmoments, he heard her enterhis room. Her arms reachedthroughtheopenwindowandpulledhiminside.Andrew sighed as she

closed the window, feelingvaguely disappointed. “Don’teverdothatagain.”“I’m wearing my lifesuit.”

He opened his shirt to showher the protective garmentunderneath.“I don’t care. It’s supposed

toprotect you,notmakeyoureckless.Youstillcouldhavebeenhurt.”“Not at that distance.

Bruises,that’sall.”“Whydidyoudoit?”

Andrew shrugged.Hewentovertohisbedandsatdown.The bed undulated; Joanseemedtoriseandfallbeforehim.“Whydidyoudoit?”“Idon’tknow.”“DoIhavetohaveakobold

followyouaround?I thoughtyouweretoooldforthat.”“I’m all right.” I wouldn’t

have died or anything, hethought.Joan watched him silently

for a fewmoments. Shewasdrifting again; he knew thesigns. Her blue eyes staredthrough him, as if she wereseeing something else. Sheshook her head. “I keepforgetting how old you are.”She paused. “Don’t go outthereagain.”“Iwon’t.”She left the room. He rose

and crossed to the windows,staring out at the housesbelow and the forested hills

beyond. His room suddenlyseemed cramped and small;his hands tapped restlesslyagainstthesill.

Andrew was sitting on theporch with Dao and JoanwhenSilasarrived.Theotherboy got off his bicycle andwheeled it up the hill to theporch. He parked it andwaved at Andrew’s parents.Joan’s thin lipswere tight as

she smiled. Dao showed histeeth; his tilted brown eyesbecameslits.Andrew sat on the steps

next to Silas. His friendwasthirteen, a year older thanAndrew. He was the onlychildAndrewhadmet in theflesh; the others were onlyholo images. Silas was bigandmuscular,tallerthanJoanand Dao; he made Andrewfeelevensmallerandslighterthan he was. Andrewmoved

upastepandlookeddownattheotherboy.Silas rose abruptly. Brown

hair fell across his forehead,masking his eyes. Hemotioned to Andrew, thenbegan towalk down the hill.Andrew followed. Theyhalted by the hedge in frontoftheemptystonehouse.Thetroll waved them away,shaking its head; its longtangled hair swayed againstitsgreentunic.

“How about it?” Silas saidastheybackedawayfromthehedge.“What?”“You know. Our journey,

our adventure. You comingwith me? Or are you justgoingtostayhere?”Andrew held out his arm,

looking at his Bond. “Wecan’tgo.They’llfindus.”“IsaidI’dfigureoutaway.

Ihaveaplan.”“How?”

“You’llsee,”Silassaid.Heshook his head. “Aren’t yousickofithere?Don’tyougettiredofit?”Andrew shrugged. “I

guess.”Silas began to kick a stone

along the road. Andrewglancedup thehill; JoanandDao were still on the porch.They had lived in that houseeven before bringing himhome,makingonejourneytothe Center to conceive him

and another when he wasremoved from the artwomb.They had gone to sometrouble to have him; theywere always telling him so.“More people should havechildren,”Daowouldsay.“Itkeepsus fromgetting toosetin our ways.” Joan wouldnod.“You’reveryprecioustous,”Joanwouldmurmur,andDao would smile. Yet, mostofthetime,hisparentswouldbe with their books or

speakingtodistantfriendsonthe holo or lost in their ownthoughts.Joan could remember the

beginnings of things. Daowas even older. He couldremember the Transition,when the world had realizedthat people no longer had todie. Dao was filled withstories of those days—thedisorder, the fear, thedesperateattemptstoreachasmanypeopleaspossiblewith

the treatments that wouldgive them youth andimmortality.Healwaysspokeof those days as if they hadbeen the prelude to greatadventure and achievement.Gradually, Andrew hadrealized that those times hadbeen the adventure, thatnothing important was likelyto happen to Joan and Daoagain. Dao was almost fourhundred years old; Joan wasonly slightly younger. Once,

Andrewhadaskedhismotherwhat shehadbeen likewhenshe was his age. She hadlaughed, seeming more alivefor a moment. “Afraid,” shehad answered, laughingagain.Silas kicked the stone

toward the hill. “Listen,” hesaid as they climbed. “I’mready.I’vegottwoknapsacksandarouteworkedout.We’dbetter leave thisweek beforemyfathergetssuspicious.”

“Idon’tknow.”The taller boy turned and

tookAndrewbytheshoulder.“If you don’t go, I’ll go bymyself. Then I’ll come backand tell you all about it, andyou’ll be sorry you didn’tcomealong.”Andrew pulled away.

Silas’s face was indistinct inthe dusk. Andrew feltanxious. He knew that heshould be concerned abouthowhisparentswouldfeel if

he ran away, but he wasn’t;hewas thinking only of howunfairithadbeenforthemtoassumethathewouldwanttohide in this isolated spot,shunning the outside world.They had told him enoughabout death cults andaccidents to make himfrightened of anythingbeyond this narrow road. Heknew what Silas wasthinking, that Andrew was acoward.

Why should I carewhat hethinks? Andrew thought, buttherewasnooneelseagainstwhom he could measurehimself. He wondered if hewould have liked Silas at allif there had been otherfriends. He pushed thethought away; he could notaffordtolosehisonefriend.As they came toward the

house, Andrew saw hisparents go inside. A koboldwas on the porch, preparing

for its nightly surveillance;behind it, a trollwas clothedin shadows. Silas got on hisbicycle.“Seeyou,”hemumbledand

coasted down the hillrecklessly, slowing down ashe reached the bottom,speeding up as he rodetowardhishome.The kobold danced over to

Andrew as he went up thesteps. It smiled; the goldencurls around its pretty face

bobbed.A tinyhand touchedhis arm. “Good night,Andrew,”itsang.“Goodnight,Ala.”“Good night, good night,

good night,” the tiny voicetrilled. “Sleep well, sweetdreams, sweet dreams.” Thetroll growled affectionately.Thekoboldprancedaway,itsgauzy blue skirt liftingarounditsperfectlegs.Andrew went inside. The

door snapped shut behind

him, locking itself. Hewalked toward the curvingstaircase, then paused,lingering in the darkenedhallway. He would have tosaygoodnight.He foundhisparents in the

living room. He knocked onthe door, interrupting thesound of conversation, thenopenedit.Daohadstrippedtohis briefs; Joan wasunbuttoningher shirt.On theholo, Andrew saw the nude

imagesofablondmanandared-haired woman; a dark-haired kobold giggled as itpeered around the woman’sbare shoulder. The flat wall-sized screen had become thedoorway into a bright, sunnybedroom.“Fiveminutes,”Daosaidto

the images. “We’ll call youback.” The people and theroom disappeared. “What isit,son?”Joan smiled. Andrew

looked down at the floor,pushing his toe against asmall wrinkle in the Persianrug. “Nothing. I came to saygoodnight.”He left, feeling their

impatience. As he climbedthe stairs, he heard the doorbelowslideopen.“Andrew,” Joan said. She

swayed, holding the ends ofher open shirt. “I’ll come uplater and tuck you in. Allright?”

I’m too old for that, hewanted to say. “I’ll beasleep,”he said ashe lookeddownather.“I’ll checkonyou anyway.

MaybeI’lltellyouastory.”Hewassurethatshewould

forget.

In the end, he went withSilas, as he had known hewould. They left two dayslater, in the morning,

stopping at Silas’s house topickuptheknapsacks.Silas’sfather was out in the back,digginginhisgardenwiththeaid of a troll; he did not seethemleave.They avoided the road,

keepingnear the trees.Whenthey were out of sight ofAndrew’s house, theyreturned to the road.Andrewwas not frightened now. Hewondered what his parentswould say when he returned

totellthemofhisjourney.Silas stopped and turned

around, gazing overAndrew’s head. “A kobold’sfollowing us.” Andrewlookedback.Alittlefigureinblue was walking towardthem; it lifted one hand ingreeting.“What’llwedo?”“Nothing, for themoment.”

Silasresumedwalking.“But it’s following us.”

Andrew walked more

quickly, trying to keep upwithhisfriend’sstrides.“Wecouldoutrun it, couldn’twe?Itwon’tbeabletokeepup.”“That’s just what we can’t

do.Ifwedothat,it’lltelltheothers, and we’ll have yourparentsandmy fatheronourtrail.”Theycametoabendin the

road.Silasdarted toonesideand hurried through thebrush.Andrew ranafterhim,thrashing through the green

growth. It had rained thenight before; the groundwassoft and muddy, and leavesstuck to his boots. Silasreached for his arm andpulledhimbehindatree.“Wait,” Silas said. He

glanced at Andrew, thenpeered at him more closely.Andrew stepped back. Silaswas looking at his chest.Andrewlookeddown.Oneofhis shirtbuttonswasundone,revealing the silver fabric

underneath.“You’rewearingalifesuit.”“Aren’tyou?”“Of course not. You’re

stupid, Andrew. Don’t youknowyoucanbetrackedwiththaton?”“Not as easily as with a

Bond.” He wondered againwhat Silas was going to doabouttheirBonds.“Takeitoffrightnow.”“You can’t hurt me, not

whileI’mwearingit.”

“I’llleaveyouhere,then.”“I don’t care.” But he did.

Hetookoffhisknapsackandunbuttoned his shirt. Twigscracked in the distance; thekobold had tracked them.Andrew removed his lifesuit,andhandedittoSilas.Ashedressed,Andrew felt

exposed and vulnerable. Hisclothingseemedtoolight,toofragile. He watched as Silasdug in the mud, burying thelifesuit with his hands. He

looked up at Andrew andgrinned,hishandscakedwithwetearth.“Getbehindthattree,”Silas

said as he picked up a rock.Andrew obeyed, flatteninghimself against the bark. Abushshook.Hecouldseethekobold now. For a moment,the android looked like aman; then itmoved closer toanother bush and was smallagain. Its dark beardtwitched.

“Silas,” the kobold called.“Silas.” It shaded its eyeswith one hand. “Silas,whereare you bound? You shouldnot come so far withoutprotection.”Thecreaturehadaman’svoice, a tenor,but ithad no resonance, no power;it was a man’s voice callingfrom far away. The koboldcamecloseruntil itwasonlya meter from Andrew, itsbacktohimasitsurveyedthearea.

Silas moved quickly,brushing against Andrew ashe rushed toward thekobold.He raised the rock andAndrew saw him strike theandroid’s head. The littlecreature toppled forward,hands out. Andrew walkedtoward it slowly. Silasdropped the red-smearedrock. The small skull wasdented; bits of bone andslender silver threadsgleamed in the wound. The

silver patch on its foreheadwasloose.“Youkilledit.”“I didn’t mean to hit it so

hard.Ijustwantedtoknockitout.” Silas brushed back hishairwithonedirtyhand.“It’sonly a kobold. Come on,wehave togo.Now that its linkis out, another one’ll comelookingforit.”Andrewstaredatthebody.“Come on.” He turned and

followed his friend. They

cametoamuddyclearingandwent around it.Silas ledhimtoanearbygroveoftrees.Two cages rested against a

tree trunk. Two cats, trappedinside, scratched at thescreening.“ItoldyouIhadaplan,” Silas said. “Now wetakecareofourBonds.”“Idon’tunderstand.”The other boy exhaled

loudly. “Messing up thesignal’s toocomplicated, andwe can’t take them off and

leavethembecausethealarmwould go out after a minuteor so. So there’s only onething left. We put them onsomebodyelse.Orsomethingelse. The system can’t tell ifit’s us or not; it only knowsthat the Bonds are on somelivingthing.Andit’llassumeit’s still us, because theseBonds are ours. Everyone’lllook for us around here. Bythetimeanyonefiguresitout,we’llbefaraway.”

Andrewstaredathisfriend.It seemed obvious andsimple, now that he hadexplained. “They might justwander back to your house,”hemurmuredasheshiftedhisgazetothecages.“Not these cats. They’re

kindofwild.They’llstayouthere for at least a day ortwo.” He opened one cageand removed a Siamese. Thecat meowed and tried toscratch. Silas stroked it

tenderly. “Hold him.”Andrew held the animal asSilas removed his Bond andput it around the cat’s neck,adjusting it. The cat jumpedfrom Andrew’s arms andscampered away. “Nowyours.”Andrew backed away. “I

can’t,”hesaid.“Ican’tdoit.”Hismouthwasdry.Hewouldbe cut off from the worldwithout his Bond; he hadneverremoveditexceptwhen

itwasbeingreadjusted.“Coward. I know what’s

going to happen to you.You’re going to run home,andyourmotherandfather’llmakesuretheirlittlepreciousdoesn’t run away again.Andyou’ll stay there forever.You’ll be a hundred yearsold, and you’ll still be there,andyou’llneverdoanything.And you’ll always be afraid,justlikethem.”Andrew swallowed. He

tookofftheBondwhileSilasheld the other cat. Hefumbledwiththebraceletanddropped it. “Here, hold thecat,” Silas said, sighing. Hepicked up the Bond andattached it himself, then putthe cat on the ground. Thecreaturebegantolickapaw.Andrew was numb. He

blinked. Silas pushed him,andhealmostfell.“Wehaveto go, Andrew. Anotherkobold’llbeheresoon.”

Late that afternoon, theyreached a deserted town.Weedshadgrownthroughthecracks in the road. Thewooden structures werewrecks. A few had becomeonly piles of lumber; othersstill stood, brown boardsshowing through the worn-away paint.Brokenwindowsrevealedemptyrooms.They walked slowly

through the town. A suddengust of wind swayed aweepingwillow,andAndrewthought he heard a sigh. Heshivered and walked morequickly.A stone house stood at the

edgeofthetown.Alowwallsurrounded it; themetal gatewas open. Silas lingered atthegate,thenwentthroughit.Thebrokenpavementleadingto the front door was anarrow trail through weeds

and tall grass. Andrewfollowed his friend up thesteps. Silas tried the doorknob, pushing at the darkwood with his other handuntilthedoorcreakedopen.The hallway was empty;

dust covered the floor.Andrew sneezed. Thefloorboards creaked undertheirfeet.Cobwebs shimmered in the

corners. They turned to theright and crept into the next

room.Andrew sniffed. “Are we

going to stay here? We’llchoke.” His voice was smallandhollow.Silas glanced around the

empty room, then walkedover to a tall window facingthefrontyard.“Wecansleephere.Ifweopenthewindow,we’llhaveair.”“Maybewe’dbetterleaveit

closed.” Andrew wonderedwhether he would prefer a

closed window and a dustyroom to an open window inthedark.Silasdidnotseemtohear him; he stared throughthe filmy windowpane for amoment, then pushed at thewindow, straining against ituntilitsqueakedopen.“Come here,” he said to

Andrew.Hewandered to thewindow and peered out overSilas’sshoulder.“Look.”“Atwhat?”Silas pushed his arm.

“Don’t you see anything,Andrew? Look at the town.It’slikeit’sstillalive.”Hesawit.Thetallgrasshid

the piles of lumber; only thestandinghouseswerevisible,coloredbytheorangeglowofthe setting sun. He couldwalk back to the town andfind people preparing supperor gathering in the street.Hesighed and backed away,making tracks in the dust ashe slid his feet along the

floor.Silas tooka shirtoutofhis

knapsack and swept a spotclean.Whenhewasfinished,Andrew sat down. Now thathe was safe, Andrew felt alittlebetter.Hehadseennoneof the terrible things hisparents had warned himagainst,onlyoldroads,forest,andadesertedtown.Hesaid,“I thought it would beworse.”“What?” Silas removed

food and water from hisknapsack.“Ithoughtitwouldbemore

—I don’t know—moredangerous.”He shrugged outofhisknapsackandstretched.Silas shook his head. “You

listen to your parents toomuch. Besides, there aren’tthat many people aroundhere;it’stoofarnorth.”“What’s thatgot todowith

it?”“You know. Maybe you

don’t, because you neverwent anywhere. They don’tlike seasons, most of them.They like places where it’salways the same. Here, thefall comes, and plants die.”Silas said the word dieharshly, defiantly atAndrew.“Theydon’tliketoseethat.”Andrewacceptedfoodfrom

his friend, opening hispackageofstewandlettingitheat up for a few moments.Silas smacked his lips as he

ate.“SometimesIhatethem,”he went on. “They don’t doanything. I don’t want to belike that.” He paused. “Oncemy father had this party,when we were living inAntigua,andthisguycame,Iforget his name. Everybodywas just sitting around,showing off what languagesthey knew or flirting. Andsome of them were makingfunofthismaninarealquietway, but he knew they were

doing it; he wasn’t thatdumb.”“Whyweretheymakingfun

ofhim?”“Because he couldn’t play

theirstupidlittlewordgames.This one woman startedsayingthat therewerepeoplewho justweren’t very smart,and you could tell who theywere because they couldn’tlearn verymuch evenwith along life and plenty of time,that they just couldn’t keep

up. Shewas saying it to thisotherman,but sheknew thatotherguyheardher, she saiditrightinfrontofhim.”“Whatdidhedo?”Andrew

asked.“Nothing.” Silas shrugged.

“He looked sad. He left alittle later,andIhad togo tobed anyway. Know whathappened?” He leanedforward. “Hewent up in thislittle plane a couple of dayslater,andhewentintoadive

and smacked into this housedown the road. You shouldhaveseenitblowup.”Andrewwastooshockedto

speak.“Luckily, nobody was

home.Themandied, though.Some people said it was anaccident, but I don’t thinkmostofthembelievedit.Thatman knew how to fly. Hewent diving right in there.”Silas slapped his right handagainsthisleftpalm.

Andrew shook his head.“That’s awful.” He lookedenviously at his friend,wishing that he too hadwitnessedsuchanevent.“Atleasthedidsomething.”Andrew lifted his head.

“But that’s terrible.” Hethoughtguiltilyabouthisownforayontotheroofoutsidehiswindow.“So what? It’s terrible.

Everybodysaidso,butitwasalmost all they ever talked

about afterwards. I know fora fact that a lot of themwatched the whole thing ontheir screens later on. Awomanwasoutwithherholoequipment just by luck, andshe got the whole thing andput it in the system. That’sthe point, Andrew. He didsomething, and everybodyknew it, and for a while hewas the most important guyaround.”“And he was so important

youforgothisname.”“Iwaslittle.Anyway,that’s

whymyfathercamehere.Hedecided he didn’twant to bearound a lot of people afterthat. He kept saying it couldhave been our house.” Silasthrew his empty containerinto the corner and leanedback against the wall,smiling. “That would havebeensomething,ifithadbeenourhouse.OldBenwouldn’thave ever gotten over it. I’ll

bet hewould havemovedusunderground.”Andrew pulled up his legs

andwrappedhisarmsaroundthem, imagining a planestreaking through the sky.The room seemed cozy now;thethoughtofdangerbeyondmade it seem even cozier.Antigua, of course, wassafely distant. He lookedadmiringlyathisfriend.Silashadseendanger,andnothinghad happened to him;

Andrew would be safe withhisfriend.

Andrew was awake in thedarkness.Theknapsackunderhisheadwasbumpy,and thefloor was hard. His musclesached.He thoughtofhisbedathome.He supposed he must have

slept a little. It had still beenlight outside when he hadgone to sleep. He listened;

Silaswasbreathingunevenly.Hefeltamovementnearhimand realized his friend wasawake.Hewasabouttospeakwhenheheardaclick.Thefrontdoorwasopening.

He stiffened and held hisbreath.Thedoorcreaked.Heheard footsteps in the hall,andhisearsbegantopound.Hewanted tomake for the

window and get outside, buthecouldnotmove.Silashadstopped breathing. The

footstepswerecomingtowardthem. He tried to press hisbackagainstthefloor,asifhecould sink between theboardsandhide.A beam of light shot

through the darkness,sweeping toward them in anarc.Andrewsatup.Thelightstruck him, and he threw upan arm. He tried to cry out,but let out only a sigh. Silasshouted.Someone laughed. Andrew

blinked, blinded by the light.The footsteps came closerand the light dimmed. Theshadowy figure holding itleaned over, set the slenderpocket lightonthefloor,andsatdown.Theintruder’sfacewasnow

illuminated by the light. Itwas a girl with curlyshoulder-length hair. Shesaid,“Whoareyou?”Andrew glanced at Silas.

“I’m Silas, this is Andrew.

Wearen’tdoinganything.”“I can see that. Hold out

yourarms.”Andrewhesitated.“Holdthemout.”Hervoice

washard.Theboysextendedtheir arms. “You’re notwearingBonds.Good.Idon’twantasignalgoingout.”Shehad one hand at her waist;Andrewwondered ifshewashurt. Then she withdrew it,andhesawametalwand.Shewas armed. He lowered his

armsslowlyandclutchedhiselbows.“We’re exploring,” Silas

said.“You mean you’re running

away.I’mrunningaway,too.Myname’sThérèse.Whoareyourunningawayfrom?”“Ourparents.”“Why?”“Itoldyou,wejustwantto

lookaround.”“Then they’re looking for

you.”

Silas shook his head. “Wethrew them off the track. Ifthey’re looking, they won’tlook here.” Andrew washoping that his friend waswrong.“Doyourparents livearoundhere?”“I’mnotrunningawayfrom

parents.” The girl brushed acurl from her forehead.“Whereareyoufrom?”“Oh,alongwayfromhere,”

Silasanswered.“Ittookusallday togethere.There’sonly

three houses where we’refrom; there’s just Andrew’sparentsandmyfatherandonewoman who’s practicallynever there. So you don’thave to worry.” Andrewsuspected that the other boywasasfrightenedashewas.“I’m not worried.” Thérèse

reached for the light, thenstoodup.“I’mgoingtosleepin the hall. I’ll talk to youtomorrow.”The boards groaned under

her feet as she left; Andrewheard her close the door. Hemoved closer to Silas. “Wecanstillgoout thewindow,”hewhispered.“What if she comes after

us?”“We can wait until she’s

asleep.”Silas was silent for a few

moments. “Why bother?She’s runningaway, too.Wemight be safer with heranyway.Shehasaweapon.”

“Shemightbedangerous.”“I don’t know. She’s just

anotherkid.Ifshewasreallydangerous, she could havelasedusrighthere.”Andrewshuddered.“Maybe

weshouldgohome.”“That’s all you can think

about, isn’t it, running hometo Joan and Dao.” Silaspaused. “Somethinginteresting’s going on, andyouwanttohide.Look,ifwehave to, we can always get

awaylater.Allwehavetodoisgotothenearesthouseandsend out a message, andsomebody’ll come. Let’s gotosleep.”Andrewstretchedoutonthe

floor. Silas might be scared,but he would never admit it.Andrew considered escapingbyhimself,butthethoughtoftraveling alone in the nightkepthimatSilas’sside.

They shared some dried fruitandwaterwithThérèseinthemorning. Andrew realizedthat they would run out offoodsoonerif theydivideditthreeways.Theywouldhavetogohomethen.Thatnodoncheeredhimabit as they setoutfromtown.In the early morning light,

Thérèse did not seem asfrightening. He guessed thatshe was about twelve. Shewas taller than he was, but

her long legs and thin armswere gangly, and her chestwas flat. Her cheeks wereround and pink; strands ofreddish-brown hair keptdrifting across her face,causinghertoshakeherheadperiodically. She carriednothing except her weaponand her light, both tucked inher belt.Her shirt and slackswere dirty, and there wereholes in her pants near herknees.

Andrew was on the girl’sleft;Silaswalkedatherright.Silas also seemed more atease. He had joked withThérèse as they ate, finallyelicitingasmile.Thérèsewasreserved; Andrew wonderedif all girls were like that oronlythisone.Herememberedthe girls he had spoken withover the holo and the way acouple of them often lookedat him scornfully, as if hewerestillalittlechild.

“Why did you run away?”sheaskedabruptly.“I told you,” Silas

answered.“Imeantherealreason.Are

yourparentscruel,orisitjustthattheydon’tseemtocare?”“Myfather’sallright.”“Whataboutyourmother?”“Idon’thaveone,theyused

storedovaforme.”“Whataboutyou?”shesaid

toAndrew.“I don’t know,” he replied.

“Silas was going, so I wentwithhim.”“That’s not a good reason.

Don’tyoulikeyourhome?”“Ilikeitfine.”“Youshouldn’thave left it,

then.”Andrew wanted to ask

Thérèse why she had runaway.“Maybe you ought to go

back,”shewenton.“We’ll stick with you,”

Silas said. “You don’t mind,

doyou?”“If Iminded, Iwouldn’tbe

walkingwithyou,nowwouldI?” The girl slowed, peeringdown the cracked andpotholed asphalt. “Weshouldn’t stay on this road.”She turned her head,surveying the area. A bridgewas ahead. She pointed.“Maybeweshouldfollowtheriver.”“Fine withme,” Silas said.

They left the road,

scampering down the hill tothe bank. The river flowedwest;theyclimbedoverrocksand strolled along the grassybank.“How long have you been

traveling?”Silasasked.“Long enough,” Thérèse

replied. “Since spring. Acoupleofmonths.”Silas whistled. The girl

stumbled,wavingherarmsinan attempt to regain herbalance.Pebbles rolleddown

thebank.Andrewreachedforher, grabbing her arm. Shejerkedawayviolently,almostfalling.The slap stung his cheek.

He stepped back. “Don’ttouch me,” Thérèse shouted.“Keep away from me.” Herarm was up, as if she wasabouttohithimagain.“I was trying to help.” He

crouched,holdingoutahand.Thérèse was breathingheavily; her cheeks were

flushed. Silas moved awayfrom her and came closer toAndrew.Thegirlloweredherhands.“I’msorry,”shesaidatlast.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t gettooclosetome.Ican’tstandit.Allright?”Andrewnodded.Sheturned

and marched ahead, notlookingback.Silas raisedhiseyebrows, then followed her.Andrew trailed behind. ThelookinThérèse’sbrowneyes

had chilled him; he had notseen the heat of anger or thewideeyesoffear,onlyacoldlookofmaliceandhatred.Hestuffed his hands in hispockets as he walked andkept back, afraid to get tooclosetoThérèse.

By noon they had left theriver and found a dirt roadthat wound through woodedhills. Thérèse had remained

silent, but she had alsomanagedtosmileatacoupleof Silas’s remarks. Andrewbegan towhistle a tune, thenturned it into the 1812Overture. Silas added soundeffects, shouting “Boom” atthe appropriate moments.Thérèse laughed, but hermouthtwisted,asifshefoundthewholethingsillyaswell.Then she stopped, and

pointed. Below them, theroad dipped. A woman was

walking along the road, herback to them, a koboldbehind her. Apparently shehadnotheard them.Shewasmoving toward a clearing; asmallhouse,surroundedbyatrimmed lawn, stood backfrom the road. A maple treewas in front of the house;near it, several flat stonesformed a circle on theground.Andrew went as close to

Thérèse as he dared. “What

now?”hesaidsoftly.Shefrowned.“Wecancatch

upwithher.”“Butshe’ll—”“Come on.” She moved

aheadquickly,andbothboysfollowed. The womanstopped walking and lifted aslender white cylinder to herlips, lighting it; she wassmokingacigarette.Thensheturnedandsawthem.Her dark eyes were wide.

She dropped the cigarette

quickly, as if ashamed thatthey had seen it, grinding itoutwithherfoot.Thekobolddrewnearherprotectively.Itswhite hair was short, and itseyebrowsbushy;itscowled.Thérèse,approaching,lifted

ahand.“Hello.”“Hello?” the woman

answered. Her greetingseemed tentative. Shepluckednervouslyatherlongblackhair.The girl moved closer,

glancing at the kobold. Itdrew itself up, adjusting itsred cape. Andrew and SilaskeptbehindThérèse.Andrewwasnotafraidofthewoman,only of the android, whichmight move quickly if itthoughtitsmistresswasbeingthreatened.Hekepthishandsat his sides, palms open, insightofthesmallcreature.“What do you want?” the

womanasked.Thérèse said, “We need

food, and a place to rest.Please help us. We won’tbotheryou,oranything.”Thegirl’s voice was higher,gender than the toneAndrewhad heard on the road. Thewoman gazed at Thérèse’soutstretched hands, and hereyelidsfluttered;Andrewwassure she had noticed theweaponatthegirl’swaist.The woman straightened.

She liftedherheadandstuckoutherchin,asifreadyfora

confrontation, but her handstrembled. “What are youdoing out here?” Her voicewashighandweak.“We’re running away,”

Thérèse said. “We’reexperiments.” Andrew triednot to look surprised; Silaswas keeping a straight face.“Thesebiologistsweretestingus. I know they didn’t thinkthey were doing anythingmean, but you know howthey are. This one man said

he’d help us ifwe got away.So we’re on our way to hisplace.”The woman frowned. “I

neverheardofsuchathing.”“They do a lot they don’t

talk about. They can doanything they want, becauseeverybody depends on them.Please don’t give us away.”Thérèse blinked her eyes, asifabouttocry.The woman pressed her

hands together. “You poor

things. You’d better followme.”She led them toward her

house. Andrew noticed thatshe was keeping near herkobold.

The woman’s name wasJosepha. The inside of herhomesmelledmusty,asifshehad been away and onlyrecently returned. She hadquestionedthem,andThérèse

had mumbled vaguely,avoidinganswering.Now the woman sat under

her maple tree with a pad,sketching, while the childrensat near the house, finishingthe foodshehadgiven them.Josepha, although seeminglysympathetic, still kept herkobold at her side. Theandroid faced them, hands atitswaist.“Was that true?” Andrew

askedThérèse.

“Waswhattrue?”“That story about the

biologists.”“Of course not.” With

Josepha in the distance, thegirl’s voice was once againlowandclipped.“Itcouldbetrue.Theymadethosethings,didn’t they?”Shegesturedatthekobold;itlifteditshead.“That isn’t the same as

experimentswithpeople.”“What would you know

about it?” Thérèse replied.

“Theymadethem,theymadeus, they used the samegenetic material. They justmakedifferentmodifications.What’sthedifference?”“There’s a lot of

difference,” Andrewprotested, thinking of thedead kobold in the woodsnear his home. “They’relimited, they can’t do muchwithoutdirection.”“I had to tell her

something,” Thérèse

murmured. “Itdoesn’tmatterwhether she believes it ornot.”“Whynot?”“Because she won’t do

anything. First of all, we’rekids, so she feels protective.Second, she’s afraid. Shewon’tdoanything thatmightput her in danger, and that’swhy she won’t alert anyone.The older people get, thefewerriskstheytake.Whydoyou think she’s hiding away

here? She’s afraid. She’ll dowhat we want. By the timeshe gets around to checking,andfindingoutwelied,we’llbe long gone. It takes themages to make up their mindstodosomethinganyway.”Silas finished his roll and

leaned back. “Why take thechance?”heasked.“I just finished telling you,

it isn’t a chance.Shedoesn’twanttobethreatened.Icouldwing her with this laser

before that kobold stoppedme; all it’s got is atranquilizer gun. They’drather have their life thananything, those people. Theybeg for mercy, they doanythingtoavoiddeath.”Andrew felt sick.Thérèse’s

words were coarse anddisgusting.“Anyway, she’s one of the

scared ones,” Thérèsecontinued. “I saw that rightaway. I’ve been running

longer than you have. I needreal food and a good night’ssleep.Don’tworry;I’vedonethis before, and no one’scaught me yet.” Her voicewascalmer.“Why’d you run away,

Thérèse?”Andrewasked.She was staring past him,

curlingher lip.Shewasveryquiet;hecouldnotevenhearher breathe. “I had myreasons,”shesaidatlast.Shepressed her lips together and

saidnomore.

TheysleptinJosepha’slivingroom. That was where thewoman had her holo screenandcomputer.Thegirlshookthemawakeatdawn.Shehadslept on amat spread out onthe carpet, leaving the largesofa to the boys. Andrewpicked up his knapsack andhoisted it to his back whileSilasyawnedandstretched.

“We’d better get going,”Thérèse whispered. Shepropped Josepha’s drawingpad against the back of thesofa. She had written amessageonit:DearJosepha,Thankyouforthefood,and

especially for the bath. Wereally are grateful. We’regoing to head west now tofind our friend. Maybe he’ll

call and thank you himselfwhen we’re settled. We’ll bethinkingofyou.

Andrewhad thought they’d

beencleverwiththeiraliases;now,seeingthemwrittenout,they seemed a poor disguise.Thewordshadbeenscrawled

in a large, childish hand.Thérèse had transformedherselfforJosepha,becomingavictimizedandgentlechild;she had played the role sowell that even he had almostbelieved it.He andSilas hadbeen merely the supportingplayersintheperformance.Thérèse signaled to them.

They crept from the house,passing the kobold at thefront door. The androidlookedup.“MayIhelpyou?”

itasked.The girl stopped. She

seemed sad as she looked atthe kobold. She raised onehand slowly and patted thekoboldonthehead.Itsmiled.“Isshegoodtoyou?”Thérèseasked. “Are you treatedwell?”“May I help you? I can

guideyoutotheroad.”The girl drew back. “No;

we’reallright.Goodbye.”“Good-bye. It was nice to

see you.” It waved with onesmallhand.Thethreeheadedacrossthe

lawn to the road. “Are wereally going west?” Andrewasked.“Of course not,” the girl

answered. “We’re goingnorth. Fewer people.” Shepaused. “Maybe you twoought to go back. Josephacould get you home.” Shesaid the words stiffly, as ifshedidnotmeanthem.

Silassaid,“We’llstickwithyou.”She seemed relieved. They

hikedalong the road silently.The morning air was dampand cool; Andrew shivered.He wondered if his parentswere looking forhimnow, iftheyhad foundout about thecats. Then he realized thatthey would probably searchsouth first, becauseSilas hadalways talked about howthingswerebetterthere.

Silas had fallen underThérèse’s spell. His friendfollowed her contentedly, asif happy to have found aleader. The ease of hissurrender had surprisedAndrew. He had thought ofSilas as decisive; now hewondered if his friend hadever decided much ofanything. His past actionsnow seemed to be only asurrendertohisfeelings.He glanced at the girl as

theywalked.Whatwouldshedo if they were found? Sheseemeddesperate.Hethoughtof how she had pulled awayand slapped him, of how shehad talked about death. Sheknew about him and Silas,but they knew nothing abouther. Would she have hurtJosepha if the woman hadtried to summon others? Thegirl had sounded as if shewould, yet she had treatedJosepha’s android with

kindness.They left the road and

began to climb a hill. It wasdark under the trees; leavesrustled as they climbed.Thérèse’s pockets bulgedwith cheese and dried fruitwhich she had taken fromJosepha; she swayed as shemoved. Andrew ached,though not as much as thedaybefore.Silas moved closer to him.

“I keep thinking about my

father,” he said betweenbreaths.“Hemustbeworried.I think about it now, and itseems awful. I keepwonderingwhyIdidn’tthinkofitbefore.Imean,Ithoughtabout it, but in a way Ididn’t.”“Does it bother you?”

Andrew asked. Thérèse hadmovedfartheraheadofthem,settingher feetdownheavilyandawkwardlyasiftryingtoflatten the earth. Her knees

werethrustout;theupperpartofherbodywasbentforward.“I don’t know,” Silas said.

“As long as I don’t have tosee it, it’s like it isn’t there.It’shardtoexplain.IfIwenthome, I’d see how upset heis, and then I’d feel rotten,buthereIdon’tseeit.Iknowthe sooner I go back, thebetterit’llbeforhim,butI’mafraid to go back, becausethen I’ll have to see himgettingmad and upset, and I

don’twantto.”“Wehavetogobacksooner

orlater,”Andrewmurmured.“I know.” Silas sighed. “I

didn’tthinkofthat,either.AllI thought about was gettingawayandwanderingaround.”He glanced up at Thérèse.ThenhelookedatAndrewfora moment. His eyes pleadedsilently.Andrew thought: He wants

me to decide. Thérèsestopped and turned around,

folding her arms across herchest as she waited for themto reach her. For a moment,she looked older. Her eyeswere aged and knowing; herfacewassetinabittersmile.The wind stirred the treelimbs above, and shadowsdappled her face, forming amaskoverhereyes.

In the evening, it began torain. They found shelter

underanoutcroppingofrock.Therainapplaudedthemasithittheground.Andrew and Silas relieved

themselves, pointing theirpenises at the rain beyond,then sat down. The groundwas hard and stony, but dry.They ate their cheese andfruitinsilence,thencurleduptosleep.Andrew dozed fitfully. His

legs were cramped; if hestretchedthem,hisfeetwould

be in the rain. He stirred,trying to get comfortable.Something pressed againsthiminthedark.“It’s me,” Thérèse

whispered. He stiffened,afraid. Silas was asleep; hecould hear his slight snort asheinhaled.“Justdon’tgrabatme,that’sall.Allright?”“Sure,”hewhisperedback.She pressed her chest

against his spine, draping anarm over him. Her body

shook slightly and shesniffed. He heard herswallow.“Thérèse. Are you all

right?”“I’mfine.”“You’recrying.”“No, I’m not.” Her body

was still. He turned over onhis back, raising his knees,careful not to touch herwithhis hands, and settled hisheadagainsttheknapsack.Hewasgrowinghard;hecovered

his groin with one hand,confused, afraid she wouldnotice.“Listen,” he said softly,

“maybe you should gohome.”Herhandclutchedhisabdomenabsent-mindedly;hefroze and went limp. “Youcould stay atmy house first,if you want, or with Silas.Theywouldn’tmind.”“I can’t go home.” He felt

herbreathonhisear.“Doyouunderstand? Not ever. This

isn’t some adventure forme.I’llalwayshavetohide.”“But you can’t stay out

here.”“Ican.It’sbetter thanwhat

I had. They’ll stop lookingwhenI’m—”Andrew waited for her to

finish.Heheardhersigh.Sheremoved her arm. “I won’tgive you away,” hewhispered.“Ipromise.”Shewassilent.Therainwas

notasheavynow;thestream

of water rushing down fromtheoutcroppinghadbecomeatrickle. I’m your friend,Thérèse. He mouthed thewordssilentlyinthedark.

Theystoodatthetopofahill,facing north. The pine treeswere thick around them;Andrew could catch onlyglimpses of the rolling landbelow.Thérèse said, “Give me a

boost.” Silas cupped hishands; she raised a foot, andheboostedhertoatreelimb.She scrambled up and gazedoutat the landscape.Andrewwatchedher,afraidshemightfall, and wondering if heshould get out of the way.She crouched, hung by thelimb with her hands, anddroppedtotheground.“There’s a house down

there,”shesaid.“Wecanstopthere, or go around it.” She

bowedherhead.“Whatdoyouwanttodo?”

Andrewasked.“I’m asking you.” She did

notlookathim.“I’mgoingtohave to move on sooner orlater by myself, you knowthat. I don’t want to get tooattachedtoyou.”Silas looked at Andrew.

Andrew did not reply. Thegirl turned and started downthe hill, motioning for themto follow. Andrew thought

about Thérèse continuing onher lonely journey. She hadtraveledalonebeforemeetingthem. She could handleherself, but the idea stillbotheredhim.Why did she have to hide,

living on the edge of theworld?Maybeshehadn’tliedabout being part of anexperiment. Once Dao hadtold him that some peoplewere afraid of the biologistsbecausetheyweredependent,

allof them,on the scientists’skill. They were keptimmortalby them; theywereafraid to have the fewchildren they didwithout thebiologists’ help. Thedependency engendered fear.Thérèse must have made upthestoryafterall.There were, however, the

koboldsandthetrolls.Hehadnever thought much aboutthem. He recalled the wayThérèse had looked at

Josepha’s kobold, as if shewere speaking to a personrather than to a being oflimitedintelligence.Weretheandroids aware of what hadbeen done to them?Did dimnotions cross their mindsbefore being drowned out bytheir cybernetic links or thecommandsoftheirmasters?Andrew went down the

hillside cautiously, avoidingthe uneven ground and loosestones.Hecouldnowseethe

house. It was a two-storywooden structure, paintedwhite; it stood a few metersfrom a dirt road overgrownwith weeds and wildflowers.The land immediatelyaroundthe house was dusty andbarren,as ifplantsrefusedtotake root there. A smallerbuilding, with peeling paint,stoodinbackofthehouse.Theycametothebottomof

the hill and walked up theroad. “I don’t think there’s

anyonethere,”Andrewsaid.The girl glanced at him.

“Doyouthinkyoucouldfindyourwayhome?”sheasked.“I guess we could. We

could always go back toJosepha’shouse.”“You’d have to tell herwe

lied. It doesn’t matter. I’dhave a head start.” Theywalkedoverthedustygroundtoward the house. Thelifelessness of the landaround the structure was

disturbing. Andrew suddenlywantedtoflee.The front door opened.

Something fluttered in thedarkness beyond the outerscreen door. Andrew movedbehind Thérèse. The screendoor swung open and akoboldemerged, followedbya woman. She wore a longwhitedresswithahighcollar;she crossed the porch andstood on the top step,watchingthem.

Thérèse held her arms out;the boys did the same.“Hello,”thegirlcalledout.“Why, hello.” The woman

waved.“Comeonuphere,letmetakealookatyou.”Thérèse hesitated. She

balanced on the balls of herfeet, as if ready to run. Shemoved a little closer to thesteps. “Come on up,” thewoman said again. “Sit here,on the porch. I haven’t hadvisitorsinquiteawhile.”

Theywentupthestepsandseated themselves on thewicker chairs. The womanrested against the railing infront of them. The koboldstoodnearherprotectively;itcarriedasilverwand.Andrewfrowned; he noticed thatThérèse had also seen theweapon. The android’s blueshirt and pants werewrinkled;itsfacewasmarredby a large nose and widemouth. The woman beamed,

unafraid.“You poor things,” the

woman said. “You look asthough you’ve had quite atrip.”“We have,” Thérèse said.

Now thatAndrewwascloserto the woman, he could seeher face. There wassomething wrong with it;deep lines were etchedaround her mouth and eyes,and her jowls shook slightlyas she spoke. Her skin was

rough and yellowish. Evenherhairwasstrange.Shehadpulled it back from her face,showing the grey streaksaroundherforeheadandears.“Your face,” Andrew

blurted out before he couldstophimself.The woman glared at him

for a moment, then smiledagain. “You think it’s ugly,”she said slowly. “You thinkit’sodd.Notallofuswanttolook twentyish. I like to look

myage.”She chuckled, as ifshe hadmade a joke. “Whatare all of you doingway outhere?”Thérèse licked her lips.

“We’rerunningaway.”“Runningaway.Howsad.I

suppose you must have areason.” She held up herhand. “You needn’t tell mewhat it is. People are sothoughtless. I wouldn’t letany children of mine runaway. You look as though

you could use a good meal.Comeoninside.”Sheledthemintothehouse.

The front room was small,but clean. Lace doiliescoveredthearmsofthewornblue sofa and chairs; twoheavy brass lamps stood onend tables. The deskcomputer and holo screenwereagainstthewall.“Youjustsitdownandtake

iteasy.Myname’sEmily.I’llgo get you something from

the kitchen.” She squinted.“You’re not wearing yourBonds.”“Of course not,” Thérèse

said.“We’rerunningaway.”“I’llberightback.”“We’ll come with you.”

They followed thewoman tothe kitchen and sat at thesmall wooden table whileEmilypunchedbuttonsonherconsole.“I know what you’re

thinking,”Emilysaid,turning

to face them while the foodwas materializing. “Youthought I might have acommunicator here. YouthoughtI’dsendforsomeone.Well, I won’t. I didn’tmoveout here so that I couldhavepeople dropping in all thetime.Idon’tlikepeople.”Shegrinned. “I like children,though. If you want to gorunning around thecountryside, that’s fine withme, but you can stay here as

longasyoulike.”Sheremovedthefood,took

out bowls, and spoonedvegetable soup into them,puttingthemonthetablewithglasses of milk and a smallloaf of bread. She sat downandwatchedthemastheyate.Andrew forgot his worries,eating the soup rapidly,slurpingasheate.Emily nodded at them

approvingly when they weredone. Something in the

gesture reminded him ofJoan.Hetriednot to thinkofhis return home. He wouldget through it somehow, andthen it would be over. Fornow,hewassafe.

They slept in the front room.Thérèsehadclaimedthesofa;Emilyhadprovidedtwocots.The girl was awake early.

She bumped againstAndrew’s cot as she rose;he

opened his eyes and sat up.Hewatchedas she took foodandwaterfromoneknapsackandputitintheother.Hesaid,“You’releaving.”“Ileftyousomestuffinthe

othersack,enoughtogetyouby.”“You’releaving.”“You knew I was going to

soonerorlater.”Silaswasstillsleeping,arm

over his eyes. “Listen tome,Andrew,” she went on

quiedy. “I think you shouldwake him up and get goingyourselves.”“Emily’llhelpus.”“There’s something funny

about her. I don’t think youshould stay here. I have togo.” She moved toward thedoor, then looked back athim. “Andrew, if anybodytells you anything about mesomeday, just remember thatit isn’thowitseems.Imean,Iwouldn’thavehurtyoutwo,

Ireallywouldn’thave.”“Iknowthat.”“Good-bye. Say good-bye

toSilasforme,willyou?Andget out of here yourselves.”She opened the screen doorandwentout.He got out of bed and

followed. The kobold wasoutside the door. It letThérèse pass, trailing her tothe steps.A troll sat in frontof the house, its long armsfoldedontheground.Thérèse

bounded down the steps andwalkedtowardtheroad.The troll rose and moved

rapidly, scampering in frontofthegirl.Shehoppedtooneside;itblockedher.Shestoodstill for a few seconds,swaying, then hurried to herleft. The troll ran, blockingheragain.“Letmepass,”heheardher

say to the creature. Shestepped forward, and it hither. She backed toward the

porch.Andrew watched, confused

and apprehensive. Thérèseturned and faced him. Herchest rose and fell; her pinkcheekswerebecomingrosier.She squinted and shook herhead. She spun aroundsuddenly and danced to herright. The troll blocked heragain;itwastoofastforher.Her hand fluttered at her

waist.Sheremovedherwand,pointing it at her antagonist.

Andrew saw a flash of light;Thérèse cried out. For amoment, he did not knowwhat had happened. The girlswayed helplessly, holdingher right arm. The kobolddarted past her and swept uptherodontheground.Andrew hurried back to

Silas and shook him awake.Theotherboymoaned.“Silas.Getup.”“What?”Heshookhishead

andstaredblanklyatAndrew.

“Thérèse. The kobold shotather.”Silas was awake. He

jumped from the cot,following Andrew to thedoor.Thérèsehadretreatedtothe porch, still holding herhand.“Are you hurt?” Andrew

askedasheopenedthedoor.“No. Just my fingers. I’m

allright.”“Listen, there’s threeof us.

If we can distract the

androids,maybe you can getaway.”Sheshookherhead.“Ican’t

do that. I don’t have myweapon now. This is myfault, I got careless. Weshould have left as soon as Isawshewasn’tafraid.”“We’ll be all right,”

Andrew said. “She probablyjusttoldthemtoguardus.Assoonasshewakesup—”“How do you know that?”

Thérèseinterrupted.“Howdo

you know she isn’t trying tokeepushere?”He didn’t know. He went

back inside and crossed theroom to the console. Hepressedabutton.“Code, please,” the

computerresponded.The machine was locked.

Andrew shivered, backingaway. Thérèse and Silas hadcomebackinside.“It won’t work,” he

muttered.Thérèsewasstaring

pasthim.“Howaremyyoungvisitors

thismorning?”Andrewturned.Emilystood

at the entrance to the room.She wore a gingham gown;her greying hair was loosearound her shoulders.Another small kobold stoodatherside;ittoowasarmed.Thérèse drew herself up,

eying the womanbelligerently. “We appreciateyour hospitality,” she said

slowly. “We’d like to be onourway.”“Notsosoon.Ihaven’thad

visitors in ever so long. Dotake off that knapsack, andI’llgetbreakfastready.”“We’d like to leave now,”

Thérèsesaid.“Butyoucan’t.”“Why not?” Silas said

loudly. His voice was high,breakingonthesecondword.“Because I’m not ready to

let you go.”Emily smiled as

she spoke. “Now sit down.What would you like? Let’shavepancakes.Thatwouldbetasty,nowwouldn’tit?”Thérèse moved toward the

woman, stopping when thekobold extended an arm,pointing at her with itsweapon. Its black eyesnarrowed. “You’d better becareful,” Emily went on.“They’re very protective ofme,and Iwouldn’twantyouhurt because of a silly

mistake. Now sit down andstop being naughty. I’ll getbreakfast.”

They spent the day in theliving room, guarded by thekobolds. Andrew had beenunable to eat breakfast orlunch;Silashadlapsedintoasullen silence. Thérèse keptwandering over to thewindow,as ifsearchingforaway to escape. Occasionally

Emily would come to thedoor, smiling in at themsolicitously. In the afternoon,she brought them aChain ofLife puzzle. Silas appliedhimself to it, assembling thepiecesuntilhehadpartofthehelix put together, thenabandoned the puzzle toAndrew.Andrew worked silently,

trying to lose himself inconcentration. The kobolds,standing nearby, watched

without speaking. Once in awhile, he looked up. Theblack-eyed android held itsweaponwith one handwhilestroking its dark beard withtheother.Theblondonenearthe screen door was still.They were both ugly, theugliest kobolds he had everseen;itwasasifEmily,withher own lack of beauty,wanted nothing beautifularound her. He wondered ifshe had made the creatures

muteaswell.Andrew broke down at

suppertime. Food had beenlaid out on the coffee tablenext to the helix. He stuffedhimself, not tastinganything;Silas picked at his chickenwhile Emily hovered,beaming at them. Then shesettled herself in a chair andsipped wine. She wore herwhite dress, but the settingsun in the windowmade thedressseempink.

Thérèsewasnoteating.Shescowled at the woman anddrummed her fingers on thearm of the sofa. A fingercaught in the doily. Thérèsetore at the lace, and itflutteredtothefloor.Thérèse said, “Give me

somewine.”“Aren’t you a little young

forthat,dear?”“Givemesomewine.”Emily poured more of the

pale liquid intoherglassand

handed it to thegirl.Thérèsedowned it in two gulps andheld out the glass. Thewoman poured more wine.Thérèseleanedback.Herfacewasdrawn.Andrew’s stomach felt

heavy and too full. Silas,seated cross-legged on thefloor, had stopped eating.Emily said, “Would you liketohearastory?”“No,”Andrewreplied.“I’ll tell you one, and then

maybeyoucantellmeone.”Thérèse raised her glass,

peeringoveritatthewoman.Shesaid,“Goahead,tellit.Itbetterbegood.”“Oh, it is.” Emily sat up.

“It’s very good. It’s about alovely young woman, like aprincessinafairytale.”The young people were

silent. Emily stared at thehelix for a moment. “Once,there was a lovely youngwoman,” she began. “She

lived in a beautiful house onthe edge of a great city, butshewasverysad,becausetheworld beyond was cruel andhard.Even inhercitadel, theevil of the world outsidecould reach her. It was as ifeveryone was under an evilspell; a dark spirit wouldcome upon them, and theywould go to war. Do youknowwhatawaris?”Noonereplied.“That’s when people take

all their talent and organizethemselves to kill otherpeople. Well, one day,something wonderfulhappened. Thewars stopped.They stopped because somepeople had found a way tokeep from dying. Now,before that, they had alreadyfound a way to stop peoplefrom aging as rapidly; theyhad a substance that clearedout all the protein cross-linkages.”

“We know about that,”Andrewsaidimpatiently.Emily shot him a glance.

“Hush, child. Let me finish.These people had found away to make everyoneyounger. You see, they weretrying to find out aboutcancer,andtheylearnedalotabout cells, and they foundthat they could stimulate thebody to rejuvenate itself andbecome younger. No longerdid our genetic structure

condemn us. When peoplerealized that they could liveforever,theworldchanged.Itwas made beautiful by thosewho knew that now theywould have to remain in itforever.WecallthattimetheTransition.”Andrew fidgeted. Thérèse

sippedherwine.Emily’slongfingers stroked the arms ofherchair;herpalehandshadsmallbrownspotsaroundtheblueveins.

“The young woman washappy.Sheopenedherhouseto others, and they all spokeof the new age, their escapefrom death. But then theyoungwomanbegan togrowweak. Soon she discoveredthatevilwasstillinherbody.A malignancy was growingwithinher,hercellswereoutofcontrol.”Emilypaused.“Itdidn’t matter. The growthwassooninhibitedbyanothersubstance,whichenabledher

immunesystemtocontrolthedisease. But later, when shereceived her rejuvenationtreatments once more, thecancer returned. Her bodywas a battleground; her owncellswereatwar.”Emily’s voice was

trembling. Andrew moved abitclosertoThérèse.“Do you understand?” The

woman’s voice was firmagain. “It was as if thewoman had been cursed.

When she received thetreatment that would allowher to live, the diseasereturned, because the sameprocess that caused her bodyto renew itself allowed thosecellstogrow.Whenshetookinterferon—that is whatcontrolled the disease—shewould be well, but growingolder. Do you understandnow? Each time, she grew abit older physically than shehad been; she was aging—

very slowly, to be sure, butaging nonetheless. Therewereotherswhohadthesameproblem,butshedidnotcareaboutthem.”Thewoman tiltedherhead.

“She became a project,” shewent on. “Biologists studiedher.Theydiscoveredthatshehad a defective gene. Thesubstance that enabled herbody to rejuvenate itselftriggered a response, andcancerous cells would

multiplyalongwiththosethatmadeheryounger.Nowthesescientists were able to keepthis gene from being passedon to others, but they coulddolittleforthewoman.Theytriedbutnothingworked.”Andrew sat very still,

almost afraid to breathe.Thérèse threw her head backandfinishedhersecondglassof wine. Silas cleared histhroatuneasily.“Theyoungwoman left the

world,” Emily said. “Shedidn’t want to be where shecouldseetheyouthfulbodiesandcheerfulspiritsofothers.Whenshehadclungtohope,she had drifted intodepression and deep sorrow.Now she released her hopesand accepted her situationand found a freedom in sodoing. Denied life—denied,atleast,afulllife—shewouldaccept death, and find peacein the acceptance. So, you

see, the story has a happyendingafterall.”Emily’s green eyes

glittered. For a moment, herface seemed younger in theeveninglight.Thérèse spoke. “The

woman can still stay alive.She can still be helped. It’sherownfaultifshegivesup.Moreisknownnow,isn’tit?”Emily smiled. “You don’t

understand. Hope was toopainful. Even healthy ones

sometimes seek death, evennow,youknowthat.Theevilhasn’t disappeared, but it toohas its consolations, even itsown beauty. Flowers arebeautiful because they die,aren’tthey?Andisn’tthereaspecialpoignancy in thinkingofsomethingyou’velost?It’sa mercy. That’s what peopleused to say about deathsometimes, it’s a mercy. Itwas a good death. He didn’tlinger,heisn’tsufferingnow,

he’sgonetomeethisMaker,he’scashedinhischips,he’sgone to his reward.Many ofthe old expressions werequite cheerful.” She loweredher chin. “There is little newknowledge now, onlytinkering, little workshopswhere they play with genesand make things like those.”She waved a hand at one ofthekobolds. “Somethingelsediedwhenwedecidedtolive,and that was great change.

There is no hope for thewoman,butitdoesn’tmatter.Thereisahappyending,yousee. There, I’ve told you astory. Now you can tell meone.”Silas looked up at Andrew

apprehensively. Andrewliftedhishead,unabletogazedirectly at Emily. “We don’thaveastory,”hemumbled.“Comenow.Ofcourseyou

do,allalonein themiddleofnowhere without your

Bonds.”“No,wedon’t.”“Maybeyourgirlfriendhas

one, then. Don’t you, Terry?Whydon’tyoutellit?”Thérèse held out her glass.

“Givemeadrinkfirst.”“You’vehadquiteenough,”

Emily said, but she pouredmore wine anyway. Thérèserose and walked over to thewindow; the dark-hairedkobold moved doser to thewoman. Thérèse turned

around.“All right. I’ll tell you a

story.”She tookabreath.“Agirl was living with a man.She’d lived with him all herlife.Hewasn’therbiologicalfather, but he was the onlyparent she had ever known.He’d brought her home andcaredforhereversinceshe’dbeen born.”Her voice shookabitasshespoke.“A rather abrupt preface,”

Emilysaid.“Butdogoon.”

“Atfirst,hewaskind.Thenhe changed. He began tocome to her room at night.He’dmakeherdothings,andsometimeshehurt her. It gottowhereshesometimesevenliked the pain, because he’dbe sorry for a whileafterwards, andhe’dbenicerwhen he was sorry, and dowhat shewanted.But then itwouldstartagain.Shetriedtorun away, but he hurt herbadly, and she was afraid to

tryagain.Itwasallherfault.That’s what he made herthink. Everything he didwasher fault, because somethinginherledhimtodoit.”Thérèse’s voice did not

tremble now; it was flat andtoneless. She perched on thewindow sill; her face wasshadowed.“Shewasstillgrowing.She

began to change. The mandidn’t like that, because hedidn’tlikewomen,onlygirls.

So he began to give her thesame thing that kept himyoung. It was tricky, but hemanaged. No one found out.They lived alone, and notmanypeoplesawher.Hewasonly doing what thebiologists do, wasn’t he? Hewas shaping a body to bewhat he wanted, that’s all,that’s how he looked at it.The years went by, and thegirl grew older, while stillremaining a child. The man

began to forget that shewasn’twhatsheseemed.”Thérèse gulped the rest of

herwineandset theglassonthesill.“Thegirlwascareful.She watched the man andbidedher time.Oneday, shewas able to escape, and shedid. My story has a happyending,too.”Andrewrealizedthathewas

digging his fingers into histhighs. He tried to relax.Emily was watching the girl

outofthesidesofhereyes.“You didn’t tell the whole

story,”thewomansaidatlast.Thérèseshookherhead.“Tellthe rest. The girl didn’t justrun, did she? She killed theman while making herescape,didn’tshe?”Thérèsedidnotreply.“They’re looking for her.

She’sstillmissing.Shekilledsomeone. You know whatthey’lldowhenshe’s found?They’ll send her up.” Emily

pointed at the sky. “They’llexileher,they’llsendhertoaprison asteroid, with all theother murderers. She’ll haveto stay there.After a year oflow gravity, she’ll need anexoskeleton to live on Earthagain. There won’t be ahappy ending if she’scaught.”Thérèse moved her arm,

hittingtheglass.It fell to thefloor, shattering. Andrewstarted. Emily rose. “Enough

stories for tonight, don’t youthink?It’stimetorestnow.”She left. The bearded

kobold remained; the blondone went out on the porchand stood in front of thescreen door. Andrew got upandwenttoThérèse.“Itisn’ttrue.”Shesaidnothing.“Itisn’ttrue,Thérèse.They

won’t send you away, theycan’t.”She pushed him aside and

threw herself across one ofthe cots. He hovered at herside, wanting to touch her,but afraid to do so. She hidher face. Her bodywas verystill.The kobold made a sound.

“Others,”itsaid,andAndrewstarted. “Others, before.Othervisitors.Gonenow.Gotosleep.”The raspy voice made

Andrew shiver. Silas stood.He picked up a plate and

smashed it on the floor.Thérèseturnedherhead.Silasbroke another plate. “Stop,”thekoboldsaid.Andrewwent to his friend.

“Silas.” He reached for theshadowy shape and held theotherboybytheshoulders.Silas shook his head and

pushed Andrew away. “I’mall right now.” He sat downon the sofa. Thérèse waslying on her side, her hip adarkhyperbolaobscuringpart

ofthewindow.Silas lifted his chin. “Did

youreallydoit?”“Dowhat?” Her voice was

flat.“Whatshesaid.”“I didn’t mean to. I was

tryingtogetaway.Hetriedtostop me. He should have letme go. When it was over, Iwas glad. I’m glad he’sdead.” The cot squeaked asshe settled herself. “Go tosleep.”

“Go to sleep,” the koboldechoed.Silas said, “Wehave toget

outofhere.”Thérèse did not answer.

Andrew stretched out on theother cot. The girl seemedresigned. He realized thatThérèse had only exile toanticipate,morewanderingora prison world. He heardfootsteps in the hall; theyfaded, and the back doorslammed. The house was

quiet; outside, cricketschirped. There was light justbeyond the window; themoonhadrisen.Silas got up and went

around the cots to thewindow. He put his elbowson the sill. The small shapeoutside the screen doordisappeared; a small headappeared near Silas, makinghim look, for amoment, likea two-headed creature. Silasstoodup.

“Come out,” the blondkobold on the porch said. Itwas a black shadow with asilvernimbusarounditshead.“Comeoutside.”Silas backed away. The

beardedkoboldcrossedtothescreen door. “Go on,” itwhispered, as if conspiringwiththem.Silas came closer to

Andrew. “Theywant to helpus.”Andrew shook his head.

“No, they don’t. They don’twant to do anything. Emilytells themwhat to do. Don’tlistentothem.”“IfIcouldgetaway,Icould

gethelp.It’sworthatry,isn’tit?”“Don’t go outside, Silas.”

He looked toward Thérèse.“Youtellhim.Tellhimnottogo.”“Andrew’s right,” Thérèse

saidfromthecot.“They said there were

others,”Silasreplied.“Maybetheyhelpedthemgetaway.”“You’re wrong. Kobolds

canonlydowhatthey’retold;they have to be directed.Theydon’thaveminds.”ButAndrew heard the doubt inthegirl’svoice.“It’s worth a chance, isn’t

it?” Silas said. “Maybe youdon’twanttogobecauseyouknowwhat’sgoingtohappento you when you’re caught.Youdon’twanthelptocome.

Youdon’tcarewhathappenstous.”“Don’tgo,”Andrewsaid.Silas leaned over him;

Andrewcouldfeelhisbreath.“It’syourfault,too.”Andrewshrank back, puzzled. “Youshould have stopped mebefore, if you hadn’t comealong, I wouldn’t be on thistrip. And it’s her fault forhaving us stop here. I’m notgoingtostaybecauseofwhatyou tell me.” He walked to

the door; the bearded koboldlethimpass.ThescreendoorslammedbehindSilas.Thérèseslidoffhercotand

stoodup.Thekoboldmadeacircle with its wand. Shemoved closer to the creatureand it pointed the wand ather.Andrewrolledoffhiscottoward the sofa, trying todecide what to do. Thérèsebacked to the window. Theandroid’sheadturned.Andrew’s hand was

reaching for the brass lampnear him. He pulled out thecord. He seemed to bemoving very slowly.Thérèselifted a hand to her face. Hepicked up the lamp. Thekobold was pivoting on onefoot. He saw its face as heleaped, bringing the base ofthelampdownonitshead.Itsqueaked.Thewandflew

from its hand, clatteringacrossthefloor.Andrewhititagainanditwasstillasitfell,

itslimbsstiff.Hedroppedthelampandbegantoshake.Thérèse was breathing

heavily.“Youtookachance,”she said. “You really took achance.”Shekneltandbeganto crawl over the floor. “Ihavetofindthatweapon.”“Useyourlight.”“Ilostmylight.”Andrew remembered Silas.

Hewent tothedoor.Thérèsewas slapping the floor. Hebreathed the night air and

smelled dirt and pollen.Opening the door cautiously,hewentoutontheporch;hisskinprickledasacoolbreezetouchedhim.The blond kobold was

below, in front of the porch.Silas was running across thebarren yard, kicking up dust.The troll was blocking him,leapingfromside tosideandwaving its long arms as ifplaying with the boy. Silasdarted to the left, but the

creature was too quick forhim. It herded him, drivinghim back toward the house.The boy hopped and danced,comingclosertoAndrew.Andrew came down the

steps, pausing on the bottomone.Thekoboldsawhim.Hecould hear Silas panting;there were shiny streaks onhisfriend’sface.Thetrollputits hands on the ground andswung between them on itsarms, lifting its knees to its

chest. It grinned, showing itscrooked teeth. Then AndrewsawEmily.The woman had come

around the side of the houseand now stood to Andrew’sleft,watchingthepursuit.Herwhite dress shone in themoonlightandflutteredinthebreeze. She raised her handsas if casting a spell, andAndrew saw that she washoldingawand.Heopenedhismouthtocry

out. His throat locked; heraspedasbreathlefthim.Thewoman pointed her wand.The beam struck Silas in thechest. He fell. Andrew heardascream.He stared numbly at his

friend. A black spot wascovering Silas, flowing overhis chest; his eyes gazedheavenward.“Silas?”Andrewmurmured.Heswayedonthesteps.“Silas?”Thetrollstoodup; the kobold stood near

Silas’shead.Dusthadsettledintheboy’sthickhair.Emily was walking toward

him, still holding the wand.She was smiling; the bluestone of herBond seemed towink. Andrew faced her,unable to move. His limbswere heavy; invisible handspressed against him. He sawonewhitearmrise.A beam brightened the

night.Andrewgasped.Emilywasfalling.Andrewclutched

at his abdomen and spunaround, almost falling fromthe step. Thérèse wasclimbing through thewindow; her feet hit theporch.Shecametotherailingand leaned over it, firing atEmily with her weapon. Thewhite dresswas stained. Thekobold raised its wand.Andrew dived for it as itfired, and heard a cry. Hewrested the weapon from itand knocked the creature

aside.Thérèsewasscreaming.She

continued to fire at Emily.One beam struck the womanin the leg; another burnedthrough her head. One armjerked.The stoneonEmily’sBondwasblack.Thérèsekeptshooting, striking the groundnearthebody.His vision blurred for a

moment. He found himselfnext to the girl. “Thérèse,stop.” She cried out as he

reached for her and held outher leftarm. Her hand was aburned, bloody claw; hegasped and touched her rightshoulder. She tore herselffromhimandwentdownthestepstoSilas.Shekneltinthedirt,pattinghis facewithherrighthand.“I was too late,” she said.

She was crying. The koboldsat up, rubbing its head.Andrew gripped his wand,aimed it at the android, then

let his arm drop. The trollscampered to the side of itsdeadmistress. It lifted her inits arms and held her. Asudden gust whippedAndrew’shair;hecaught themetallicsmellofbloodinthesummer’sdust.

Joan tried to stopAndrew atthedoor.“Whereareyougoing?”“Iwant to say good-bye to

Thérèse.”Joanfrowned.“Idon’tthink

youshould.”“She’smyfriend.”“She killed two people.”

Joan’s voice tripped over thewordkill.“She’sveryill.”“She’s not. She did what

shehadtodo.ShehadtokillEmily.”Joan stepped back. “That

woman was very disturbed,Andrew. She needed help,reconditioning.Shewasill.”

“She wasn’t ill. She wasgoing to die, and so shewanted other people to die,too,that’sall.”HethoughtofEmily’sbody in thedirt, andhis throat tightened; Thérèsehad cursed their rescuerswhen they destroyedEmily’skoboldandtroll.Thetrollhadlooked at Andrew before itdied, and he had thought hesawawarenessinitseyes.Joan took him by the

shoulders. Her eyes were

narrowed; her lips werepulled back over her teeth.“You’ll forget all this. Thepsychologist will be heretomorrow, and that will bethat. You’ll think differentlyaboutthisincident.”He twisted away and went

out the door. Dao wasoutside.HeletAndrewpass.A tent had been put up at

the bottom of the hill, atemporaryshelterforThérèseand the two psychologists

whowerenowwithher.Theyhad questioned the girl andinterrogatedhim;theyhadsetup a tent because Joan hadbeenafraidtohavethegirlinher house. Now they wouldtake Thérèse away. The evilin his world would besmoothedover,explainedandrationalized. Thérèse wouldnot be sent to an asteroid;only people who werehopelessly death-loving weresent there, and even they

could change, given enoughtime. That was what thefemale psychologist had toldhim.TheyhadhighhopesforThérèse; she was youngenough to heal. They wouldhelp her construct a newpersonality.Themental scarswould disappear; the crueltywould be forgotten. Andrewthought of it, and it seemedlike death; the Thérèse heknewwouldnolongerexist.Thérèsecameoutofthetent

asheapproached.Thebrown-skinnedwomanfollowedher;the red-haired man was neartheir hovercraft, puttingthingsaway.ThérèsereachedforAndrew’shandandhelditforamomentbeforereleasingit. The psychologist lingerednearthem.“I want to talk to him

alone,” Thérèse said. “Don’tworry, you’ll find out allmysecrets soon enough.” Thewoman withdrew. Thérèse

ledAndrewinsidethetent.They sat down on an air

mattress. The girl lookeddownattheBondonherrightwrist. “Can’t get this one offso easily,” shemuttered.Hermouth twisted. She gesturedwith her bandaged left hand.“They’re going to fix myhandfirst,”shewenton.“It’llbe just the way it was, noscars.”He said, “I don’twant you

togo.”

“It won’t be so bad. Theytold me I’d be happier. It’sprobably true. They’re nicepeople.”Andrew glanced at her.

“Ben might clone Silas.That’swhathetoldDao.He’sthinking about it.He’s goingtogoaway.”“Itwon’tbeSilas.”“Iknow.”Thérèse shook back her

hair. “I guess I won’tremember much of this. It’ll

belikeadream.”“Idon’twantyoutoforget.

I won’t. I promise. I don’twanttoforgetyou,Thérèse.Idon’t care. You’re the onlyfriendIhavenow.”She frowned. “Make some

new friends. Don’t just waitaround for someone else totell you what to do.” Shepaused. “I could have justaimedat her arm,youknow.Then she would have stillbeenalive.”

“Shewasdyinganyway.”“They could have helped

hereventually.Shewasdyingvery slowly. I didn’t have tokill Rani, either.” Her eyeswere wide; she stared pasthim.“Ididn’t.Hewasdown,he beggedme to stop. I kepthitting him with the pokeruntil his skull caved in. Iwantedtobesurehewouldn’tcome after me. I was glad,too. I was glad he was deadandIwasstillalive.”

“No,”Andrewsaid.“Stop it.” She dug her

fingers into his shoulder.“Yousaidyoudidn’twant toforget me. If you don’t seeme the way I am, you’veforgottenmealready.Doyouunderstand?”Henodded,andshereleased

him. His eyes stung; heblinked. “Listen, Andrew.We’llbeallright.We’llgrowup,andwe’llbealiveforever.Wheneveryonelivesforever,

thensoonerorlatertheyhaveto meet everyone else, don’tthey?Ifwelivelongenough,we’reboundtoseeeachotheragain, it’llbe like startingallover.”Hedidnotreply.“It’s true, you know it’s

true. Stop looking like that.”She jabbed him with herelbow. “Say good-bye,Andrew. I don’t want youhanging around when weleave.Iwon’tbeabletostand

it.”“Good-bye,Thérèse.”“Good-bye.” She touched

hisarm.Hegotupand liftedthe tent flap. He wanted tolook back at her; instead, helettheflapdropbehindhim.He climbed the hill, trying

to imagine endless life. Joanand Dao were on the porch,waiting for him. He thoughtof Silas. You’ll always beafraid, just like them; thatwaswhathisfriendhadsaid.

No,Andrewtoldhimself;notany more. His friend’s facewas suddenly before him,vivid; Joan and Dao wereonly distant, ghostly shapes,tryingtofaceuptoforever.

Afterwordto“TheSummer’sDust”:

Immortality—as a hope, apromise, or a punishment—has to be among the mostpersistentofhumanconcerns,while the knowledge thatwearealleventuallygoingtodieseems to be at the heart ofeverything we do. Death isthe goad that drives us towhatever achievements we

win. Many people look pastthiscertainendandchoosetobelieve in a life after death;unbeliever that I am, thishopestrikesmeasanextremeif all too common form ofbeingindenial.One consolation for our

limited human lives hastraditionally been knowing,orat leasthoping, thatothersofourkind,our children anddescendants, would live onafter we were gone. Some

have speculated that in aworld where human livescould be indefinitelyprolonged,therewouldlikelybe fewer children. Instead,peoplecould liveoutvariouslives themselves instead ofpassingontheirhopestotheirprogeny, and if all of thoselong-livedpeoplekepthavingchildren at our rate, thepopulationwouldexplode.Whatwould lifebe likefor

children in such a society, a

world where perhaps onlythey are growing, maturing,and changing? What mighthappen if, in spite of all thesafeguards people mightemploy toprotect themselvesandpreserve their long lives,death intruded on the worldof these children? “TheSummer’sDust” grew out ofthesequestions.

DREAMOFVENUS

HassanPetrovichMaksutov’sgrandfather was the first topointoutVenustohim,whenHassan was five years old.His family and much of hisclan had moved to theoutskirts of Jeddah by then,andhisgrandfatherhadtakenhim outside to view theheavens.The night sky was a black

canopy of tiny flickeringflames;Hassanhad imaginedsuddenlygrowingas tallasadjinn and reaching out totouch a star. Venus did notflicker like other stars, butshonesteadilyonthehorizonin the hour before dawn.Hassan had not known thenthat he would eventuallytravel to that planet, but hehaddelightedinlookingupatthe beacon that signifiedhumankind’s greatest

endeavor.Twentyyearsafterthatfirst

sighting, Hassan was gazingdown at Venus from one ofthe ten domed Islands thatfloated in the upper reachesof the planet’s poisonousatmosphere. These CytherianIslands, as they were known(after the island of Cytherawhere the goddessAphroditehad been worshipped in theancient world), were vastplatforms that had been built

ontopofmassivemetalcellsfilled with helium and thencovered with dirt and soil.After each Island had beenenclosed by an impermeabledome, the surfaces weregardened, and by the timeHassan was standing on araisedplatformattheedgeofIsland Two and peering intotheveileddarknessbelow,theIslands had for decades beengardens of trees, flowers,grassy expanses, and

dwellings that housed thepeople who had come toVenus to be a part of theProject, Earth’s effort toterraformhersisterplanet.The Venus Project, as

Hassanhadknowneversincechildhood, was the greatestfeat of engineeringhumankind had everattempted, an enterprise thathadalreadytakenthelaborofmillions.SimplyconstructingtheParasol, theumbrella that

shieldedVenusfromthesun,was an endeavor that haddwarfed the building of thePyramids (where his fatherandmotherhad takenhim toview those majesticcrumbling monuments) andChina’sGreatWall(whichhehad visited during a breakfrom his studies at theUniversityofChimkent).TheParasolhadgrownintoavastmetallic flower as wide indiameterasVenusherself, in

order to allow that hot anddeadly world to cool. Venuswould remain cloaked in theParasol’s shadow forcenturiestocome.Hassan’s grandfather had

explainedtohim,duringtheirsighting of Venus, that whathewasseeingwasinfactnotthe planet itself, but thereflected light of theParasol.Totheoldman,thismadethesight even more impressive,since the great shield was

humankind’saccomplishment, but Hassanhad felt a twinge ofdisappointment.Evennow,ashe stood on Island Two, theplanet below was veiled indarkness,hiddenfromview.The Venus of past

millennia, with a surface hotenough to melt lead, anatmosphere thick with sulfurdioxide, and an atmosphericpressure that would havecrushedaperson standingon

itsbarrensurface,hadalreadyundergone changes.Hydrogen, siphonedoff fromSaturn, had been carried toVenus in a steady stream oftanks and then released intotheatmosphere,where itwascombining with the freeoxygen produced by thechanges in the Venusianenvironment to form water.The Cytherian clouds hadbeen seeded with agenetically engineered strain

of algae that fed on thesulfuric acid and expelled itintheformofcopperandironsulfides. The Venus of thepast now existed more inmemory than in reality; theVenus of the future, thatgreen and fertile planet thatwouldbecomeasecondEarthand a new home forhumankind,wasstilladream.As for the present, Hassan

wouldnowbecomeonemoreperson whose life would be

enlarged by his owncontribution, however small,tothegreatVenusProject.SoHassan’s father PyotrAndreievichhadhopedwhilemeeting with friends andexerting his considerableinfluence on behalf of hisson. Pyotr AndreievichMaksutov was a Linker, oneoftheprivilegedfewwhohadimplants linking theircortexes directly to Earth’scyberminds, a man who was

often called upon to advisetheCouncil ofMukhtars thatgoverned all the Nomarchiesof Earth and also watchedovertheVenusProject.Pyotrhad convinced severalLinkers connected with theVenus Project Council thatHassan, a specialist ingeology,wasworthyofbeinggivenacovetedplaceamongtheCytherianIslanders.Hassan, looking down at

shadowedVenus through the

transparent dome of IslandTwo,hadbeenabletobelievethathemighthaveearnedhispositionhereuntilarrivingonthisIsland.Hehadbeenherefor two days now, and wasbeginning to feel as thoughhis father’s influence hadalwaysbeenabenignshadowover his life, one that hadshielded him from certainrealities. The passengers onthe torchship thathadcarriedhim from Earth had been

friendly,willingtosharetheirenthusiasm for the work thatlay ahead of them; the crewhad been solicitous of hiswelfare, and he had takentheirwarmthandkindnessasthatofcomradesreachingoutto onewhowould soon be acolleague laboring for theProject.OntheIsland,hehadbeen given a room in abuilding where most of theother residents werespecialists who had lived on

IslandTwo for severalyears,andhadassumedthatthiswasonly because newcomerswere usually assigned to anyquarters that happened to beempty until more permanentquarterswerefoundforthem.Now he suspected that the

friendliness of the peopleaboard the torchship and hisrelatively comfortablequarters on Island Two hadmore to dowith his family’sconnectionsthanwithluckor

any merits of his own. TheVenus Project needed peopleof all sorts—workers tomaintain and repairhomeostats and life supportsystems, and pilots for theairships that moved betweenthe Islands and for theshuttles that carriedpassengers to and fromAnwara, the space station inhigh orbit aroundVenus thatwastheirlinktoEarth,wherethetorchshipsfromthehome

world landed and docked.Counselors to tend to thepsychological health of theIslanders, scientists, andpeoplebraveenough toworkontheBats,thetwosatellitesabove Venus’s north andsouth poles, were all neededhere,andnotallofthemwereexceptionallygiftedoramongthe most brilliant in theirdisciplines. Many Islanders,the workers in particular,came from the humblest of

backgrounds; the Council ofMukhtars wanted all ofEarth’speopletoshareintheglory of terraforming,although the more cynicalclaimed that offering suchhope to the masses alsofunctioned as a social safetyvalve.Hassan could tell himself

thathemeasureduptoanyofthepeoplehere,andyetafteronly a short time on IslandTwo, he saw thatmany here

had a quality he lacked—adetermination, a hardness, adevotion to the Project thatsome might call irrational.Such obsessiveness wasprobably necessary for thosewho would never see theresult of their efforts, whohad to have faith that otherswould see what they hadstarted through to the end.The Project needed suchdriven people, and wouldneed them for centuries to

come.But Hassan was only a

younger son of an ambitiousand well-connected father,whowasheremostlybecausePyotr could not think ofanythingelsetodowithhim.He was not brilliant enoughtobetrainedforanacademicposition,notpolitically adeptenough tomaneuver hiswayinto becoming an aide to theCouncil ofMukhtars, and helacked the extraordinary

discipline required of thosechosen to be Linkers; hismore flighty mind, it wasfeared, might beoverwhelmed by the sea ofdata a Link would provide.Hassan might, however, beburnishedbyadecadeortwoofwork on theProject.Withthat accomplishment on hispublicrecord,hecouldreturnto Earth and perhaps land aposition training hopefulyoung idealistswho dreamed

of joining the Project; thatsort of post would give himsome influence. He mightevenbebrought intoconsultwith members of the ProjectCouncil, or made a memberofoneofthecommitteesthatadvised the Council ofMukhtarsontheterraformingof Venus. In any event, hisfather would see anineffectual son transformedinto a man with a reputationmuch enhanced by his small

role in humankind’s mostambitiousenterprise.Hassanknewthatheshould

consider himself fortunatethat his father had the powerto help secure his son’sposition.Hewasevenluckierto win a chance to be listedamong all of those whowould make a new Earth ofVenus. His life had beenfilled with good fortune, yethe often wondered why hisluck had not made him

happier.

After the call to eveningprayer had sounded, and thebright lightof thedomehighoverhead had faded intosilver,Hassanusuallywalkedto the gardens near theziggurat where Island Two’sAdministrators lived and atehis supper there. He mighthave taken the meal in hisbuilding’s common room

with the other residents, oralone in his room, but eatingin solitude did not appeal tohim. As for dining with theothers, the people who livedin his building still treatedhim with a kind of amusedand faintly contemptuoustolerance even after almostfivemonths.Hassan chafed at such

treatment. Always before, atschool and at university andamong the guests his family

invitedtotheircompound,hehad been sought out,flattered, and admired. Hisopinions had been solicited,histentativecommentsonallsorts of matters accepted asintriguing insights into thematters of the day. Hisprofessors, even those whohad expected more of him,hadpraise forhispotential ifnot for his actualaccomplishment. But manyIslanders seemed to regard

him as someone on the levelof a common worker, nobetter or worse than anyoneelse.Indeedtheworkershere,most of whom came fromeither teeming slums or themore impoverished ruralareas and isolated regions ofEarth’s Nomarchies, wereoften treated with moredeferencethanhewas.And why not? Hassan had

finally asked himself. Whyshouldn’t an illiteratemanor

woman laboring for theProjectbegivenmorerespectthan a Linker’s son? Theworkers, however humbletheir origins, had to be thebest at their trades, andextremely determined, inordertowinaplacehere,andthemain reward theywantedfor theireffortswasachancefor their descendants to havemore opportunities than theyhad been given and to beamongthefirsttosettleanew

world. Hassan’s place was agift from his father, and hewas not thinking of a betterworld for any children hemight have, only of hangingontowhathisfamilyalreadypossessed.Hassan sat down at his

usualtable,whichwasnearasmall pool of water. Otherpeople,severalwiththesmalldiamondlikegemsofLinkerson their foreheads, sat atother tables around the pool

and under slender trees thatresembledbirches.Asaservorolled towardhim to takehisorder, he glimpsed his friendMuhammad Sheridanhurryingtowardhimfromthestone path that led to theAdministrators’ziggurat.“Salaam,” Muhammad

called out to him. “ThoughtI’d be late—the Committeemeeting went on longer thanwe expected.” The brown-skinnedyoungmansatdown

across from Hassan.Muhammad’s family weremerchants and shopkeepersfrom theAtlantic Federation,wealthy enough to have alargeestatenear thesouthernNew Jersey dikes and seawalls and well connectedenough to have sentMuhammadto theUniversityofDamascusforhisdegreeinmathematics. Hassan felt atease with Muhammad; thetwooftenatedinnertogether.

Muhammadhadapositionasan aide to AdministratorPavel Gvishiani, a post thatwould have assured him acertain amount of status onEarth. But here, Muhammadoften felt himself patronized,ashehadadmittedtoHassan.“Let’s face it,”Muhammad

had said only the otherevening,“theonlywaywe’regoing to make a place forourselvesamongthesepeopleis to do something truly

spectacular for the Project,maybe something, Godwilling, on the order ofwhatDawud Hasseenaccomplished.” DawudHasseen had designed theParasolalmostthreecenturiesearlier,andhadbeenthechiefengineer during itsconstruction. “Or else we’llhave to put in our time herewithout complaining untilwe’reasdrivenandobsessedas most of the workers and

younger specialists, inwhichcasewemightfinallybecomemoreacceptable.”Thesecondcoursewastheir

only realistic alternative,Hassan thought. Their workherewouldnotalloweitherofthem much scope for grandachievements. Muhammad’sposition as an aide to PavelGvishiani required him todevote his time to suchhumble tasks as backing upwritten and oral records of

meetings, retrievingsummaries of them whenneeded, preparing andreviewing routine publicstatements, and occasionallyentertaining Pavel withdiscussions of anymathematical treatises theAdministrator had recentlyhad transmitted to him fromEarth. Lorna FredasMarkos,theheadofHassan’s teamofgeologists, had givenHassanthemundaneworkofkeeping

the team’s records in orderand occasionally analyzingdata on the increases in thelevels of iron and coppersulfides on the basalt surfaceof Venus, work no one elsewas particularly interested indoingandthatalmostanyoneelsecouldhavedone.“I don’t know which

Islanders are the worst,”Muhammad had continued,“the peasants and streeturchins who came here from

Earth, or the workers whothink of themselves as theProject’s aristocrats justbecause their families havebeen living here for morethan one generation.” Thiswas thekindof frankremarkHassan’s friend would havekept to himself in othercompany.Muhammad set his pocket

screenonthetabletopinfrontof him. Hassan had broughthis own pocket screen;

although there was no workhehad todo thisevening,hehadtakentototinghisscreenaround, so that he could atleast give the appearance ofbeing busy and needed. Thetwoyoungmenorderedapotof tea and simple meals ofvegetables, beans, and rice.Hassan had come to theIslandswithenoughcredit toafford a more lavish repast,even some imported foodsfromEarth,buthewasdoing

his best to keep within thecredit allotted to him by theProject, knowing that thiswould look better on hisrecord.“How goes it with you?”

Muhammadasked.“The way it usually does,”

Hassan replied, “althoughLorna hinted that she mightgive me a new assignment.There’s a new geologistjoining our team, so perhapsLorna wants me to be her

mentor.” He had looked upthe public record of thegeologist, who had arrivedfrom Earth only two daysago. Her name was MiriamLucea-Noyes; she had grownup on a farm in the PacificFederationofNorthAmerica,and had been trained at theUniversity of Vancouver. Itwas easy for him to piecetogether most of her storyfrom her record. MiriamLucea-Noyeshadbeenoneof

those bright but unschooledchildren who wasoccasionally discovered by aregional Counselor andelevated beyond her family’sstatus; she had been chosenfor a preparatory school andthen admitted to theuniversity for morespecialized training. Heracademicrecordwas,Hassanruefully admitted to himself,superior to his own, and hecould safely assume that she

had the doggedness andsingle-mindednessofmostofthose who had come to theCytherian Islands. About theonly surprising detail in herrecord was the fact that shehad spent two years earningextracreditforheraccountasa technical assistant to adirector of mind-tours andvirtual entertainments beforecompletingherstudies.“Ah, yes, the new

geologist.” Muhammad

smiled.“Actually, Imightbeat leastpartly responsible foryour new assignment.Administrator Pavel thinksit’s time thatweput togetheranewmind-touroftheVenusProject. The Project Councilcoulduse theextracredit theproduction would bring, andwe haven’t done one for awhile.”Hassan leaned back. “I

wouldhavethoughtthattherewere already enough such

entertainments.”“True,butmostofthemare

abitquaint.Allofthemcoulduse some updating. AndPavelthinksthatwehavethecapacity to provide a muchmore exciting and detailedexperiencenow.”The servo returned with a

teapot and two cups. Hassanpouredhimselfandhisfriendsome tea. “I wouldn’t havethought,” he said, “that anAdministrator would be

concerning himself withsomething as relativelyunimportantasamind-tour.”“PavelGvishianiisthekind

ofmanwhoconcernshimselfwitheverything.”Muhammadsipped some tea. “Anyway,Pavel was discussing thismind-tour business with therest of the Administrators,and they all agreed that wecould spare a couple ofpeopletomapoutatour.Thisnew geologist on your team,

Miriam Lucea-Noyes, is anobviouschoice,giventhatshehas some experience withmind-tour production. Andwhen Pavel brought up hername, I suggested that youmightbesomeonewhocouldwork very well with her onsuchaproject.”“I see.” Hassan did not

knowwhethertofeelflatteredor embarrassed. Althoughcultivated people were notabove enjoying them, the

visual and sensoryexperiences of mind-tourswere most popular withchildren and with ignorantand uneducated adults. Theyservedtheusefulfunctionsofproviding vicariousexperiences to people whomight otherwise grow boredor discontented, and ofimpartingsomeknowledgeofhistory and culture to theilliterate. With the aid of aband that could link one

temporarily to Earth’scyberminds, a person couldwander to unfamiliar places,travel back in time, orparticipateinanadventure.Hassan had spent many

happyhoursasachildwithabandaroundhishead, scuba-diving in the sunken city ofVenice and climbing to thetop ofMount Everest with aparty of explorers, amongothervirtualadventures.Forawhile, at university, he had

toyed with the notion ofproducing suchentertainments himself. Hehadmanagedtofitcoursesinvirtual graphics, adventurefiction, music, and sensoryeffects production into hisschedule of required studies,andhadbeenpartofastudentteam producing a mind-tourfor the University ofChimkenttouseinrecruitingnewstudentsandfacultyuntilhis father had put a stop to

such pursuits. He had givenin, of course—Pyotr hadthreatenedtocuthimofffromall credit except a citizen’sbasic allotment and to donothingtohelphiminsuchaprofession as mind-tourproduction—but he hadremained bitter about thedecisionhisfatherhadforcedonhim.Inanuncharacteristicemotional venting, Hassanhad admitted his bitternessover his thwarted dream to

Muhammad.Beingchosen towork on the university’smind-tour remained the onlyprivilegehehadeverwonforhimself, without his father’sintercession.“Itwon’t hurt to have such

experiences on your record,”Pyotr had told Hassan, “aslong as it’s clear that thismind-tour business is just ahobby.Butitisn’tthekindofprofession that couldmake aLinker of you, or give you

any chance in politics.” Hisfatherhad, forawhile,madehim feel ashamed of hisearlierambition.“It’snotthatI’mdoingyou

any special favors, Hassan,”Muhammad said. “It’s justthat we don’t have manypeople here who could puttogether even a preliminaryvisual sketch of amind-tour,and Administrator Pavelthinks having peopleassociated with the Project

doing theworkmight impartanewperspective,somethingmoreoriginal,somethingthatisn’t just the vast spectacleinterspersed with inspiringdioramas that most mind-toursabouttheVenusProjectare.” He paused. “Anyway,it’ll be something other thantheroutineworkyou’vebeendoing.”Hassan found himself

warming to the prospectConstructing a mind-tour,

putting together the kind ofexperience that would makeanyone, however humble hisposition, proud to be even asmall part of a society thatcould transform a planet—this was a challenge he wascertain he couldmeet. Therewasalsoanironicsatisfactionin knowing that the pursuithis father had scorned mightbecomehismeansofwinningAdministratorPavel’sfavor.

Miriam Lucea-Noyes was ashort, extremely prettywomanwiththickdarkbrownhair, wide-set gray eyes, anda look of obstinacy.“Salaam,” she murmured toHassan after LornaFredasMarkoshadintroducedthem.“How do you do,” Hassan

replied.Miriamgazedathimsteadily until he averted hiseyes.

“Hassan,” Lorna said, “Ifeelasthoughwemighthavebeen wasting your talents.”The gray-haired womansmiled. “You should havecalled your experience withmind-tour production to myattentionearlier.”“Itwasnotedinmyrecord,”

hesaid.“Well, of course, but one

can so easily overlook suchnotations—” Lorna abruptlyfell silent, as if realizing that

shehadjustadmittedthatshehad never bothered to studyhis record thoroughly, thatshehadgivenitnomorethanthe cursory glance that wasprobably all the attention itdeserved. “Anyway,” theolder woman continued,“Administrator Pavel is quitepleased that twomembers ofmy team are capable ofputting togetheranewmind-tour.Youwillhaveaccess toall the records our sensors

havemade,andtoeverythingin the official records of theProject, but if there’sanything else you need, besuretoletmeknow.”“How long do we have?”

Miriamasked.Lorna lifted her brows.

“Excuseme?”“What’s the deadline?”

Miriam said. “How long dowe have to pull this thingtogether?”“Administrator Pavel

indicated that he would liketo have it completed beforetheNewYear’scelebrations,”theolderwomanreplied.“Sowe’vegotfivemonths,”

Miriam said. “Then I thinkwe’llseeintheyear535withonehellofafinemind-tour.”Lorna pursed her thin lips,

as if tasting something sour.“You may both have moretime if you need it. TheAdministrator would preferthatyoukeep tohis informal

deadline, but he alsomade itclear that he would ratherhaveamind-tour that isbothaesthetically pleasing andinspirational, even if thattakeslongertocomplete.”Hassan bowed slightly in

Lorna’s direction. “We’ll doour best to produce a mind-tour that isbothpleasingandontime,Godwilling.”“And that isn’t a sloppy

rushjob,either,”Miriamsaid.“I may have to drag you

away to our team meetingsandyourotherstandardtasksoccasionally,” Lorna said,“but I’ll try to keep suchdistractions to a minimum.”She turned toward thedoorway.“Salaamaleikum.”“Aleikum salaam,” Miriam

said. Her Arabic sounded asflat and unmusical as herAnglaic.“Godgowithyou,”Hassan

added as the door slid shutbehindtheirsupervisor.

“Well,Hassan.”Miriamsatdownononeof the cushionsat the low table. “I don’tknowifyou’veeverseenanyof the mind-tours I workedon. Most of them were forsmall children, so youprobably haven’t. ‘HansAmong theRedwoods’—thatwasoneofourmorepopularones, and ‘Dinosaurs in theGobi.’”He tensed with surprise. “I

saw that dinosaur mind-tour

— marvelous work. Maybeyoumadeitforchildren,butIhave several adult friendswhoalsoenjoyedit.”“And ‘The Adventure of

MontroseScarp.’”Hassan was impressed in

spite of himself. “‘MontroseScarp?’” he asked as heseated himself. “My nephewSalimcouldn’tgetenoughofthatone.Hejustaboutforcedmetoputonabandandviewit. What I particularly

admired was the way theexcitement of the climb andthe geological history of thescarp were so seamlesslycombined.”“Thatwasmydoing,ifIdo

say so myself.” Miriampointedherchinathim.“JoeKinnear—hewas thedirectorIworkedwith—hewantedtoput inmore of the usual shit—youknow,stufflikehavingthemind-tourist lose his gripand fall before being caught

by the rope tied around him,or throwing in a big stormjust as you reach the top ofthe escarpment. He thoughtdoing what I wanted wouldjustslowthethingdown,butI convinced him otherwise,andIwasright.”“Yes, you were,” Hassan

said.“And every damned mind-

tour of Venus has theobligatorysceneofKarimal-Anwar speaking to the

Council of Mukhtars, tellingthem that what they learnfrom the terraforming ofVenus might eventually beneededtosaveEarthfromtheeffectsofglobalwarming,orelse a sceneofNewYorkorsome other flooded coastalcity at evening while Venusgleams on the horizon and aportentous voice quotes fromthat speech Mukhtar Karimsupposedly made toward theendofhislife.”

Karim al-Anwar had beenthe first to propose a projectto terraform Venus, back inthe earliest days of Earth’sNomarchies, not long aftertheResourceWarsalmostsixcenturies ago. “When I gazeuponVenus,”Hassanquoted,“and view the images ourprobes have carried back tous from its hot and barrensurface, I see Earth’s future,andfearforourworld.”“Followed by the sensation

ofheatandahellishimageofthe Venusian surface,”Miriam said. “And the threemost recent ones all havescenes of explosions on theBats,whichIfranklythinkismisleading and maybe eventoofrightening.”The Bats, the two winged

satellites in geosynchronousorbit at Venus’s poles,serviced the automaticshuttles that carriedcompressed oxygen from the

robot-controlled installationsat the Venusian poles to theBats. The process ofterraforming was releasingtoomuchofVenus’soxygen,and the excess had to beremoved if the planet wasever to support life. Theworkers on the Bats, peoplewhoservicedtheshuttlesandmaintained the docks, knewthatthevolatileoxygencouldexplode, andmany lives hadbeenlostinpastexplosions.

“There are real dangers ontheBats,”Miriam continued,“but we don’t have to dwellonthemjustforthesakeofafew thrills. I’d rather avoidthosekindsofclichés.”“So would I,” Hassan said

fervently.“We should purge our

mindsofanythingwe’veseenbefore and start overwith anentirelyfreshpresentation.”“I think that’s exactlywhat

Pavel Gvishiani wants us to

do.”“We’regeologists,”Miriam

said, “and maybe that’s theangleweoughttouse.Idon’tthink past mind-tours havereally given people a feelingfor theProject in the contextofgeologicaltime.I’dliketoemphasize that. Hundreds ofyears of human effort setagainst the eons it took toform Venus—and if we getinto planetary evolution andthe beginnings of the solar

system…”“I couldn’t agree with you

more,”Hassansaid.“Most of the people who

experience thismind-tour arelikely to be ignorant andunschooled, but that doesn’tmean we have tooversimplify things and lardthe narrative with dramaticconfrontations and actionscenes.”“It sounds as though what

we want is a mind-tour that

wouldbebothenlighteningtotheuneducated,”Hassansaid,“and yet entertaining andinspirationaltothelearned.”“That’s exactly what I

want,”Miriamsaid.Itwasalso,Hassanthought,

exactlywhat PavelGvishianiwas likely to want. JudgingbywhatMuhammadhadtoldhim about theAdministrator,Pavel was not someone whocared tohavehis intelligenceinsulted.Tohaveamind-tour

that would not just be aninformative entertainment,butamasterpiece—“Weshould talkabouthow

wewant toframeit,”Hassansaid,“beforewestartdiggingthrough all the records andsensorscans.Haveastructurethat encapsulates our vision,andthenstartcollectingwhatweneedtorealizeit.”“Exactly,” Miriam said.

“You’d be surprised at howmany mind-tour directors do

it the other way around,looking at everything thatcould possibly have anythingto dowith their themewhilehoping that some coherentvision suddenly emerges outof all the clutter. That isn’tthewayIliketowork.”“Nor I,” Hassan said,

gazingacross the tableatherexpressive face and intensegaze,alreadyenthralled.

Miriam, despite being ageologist and a specialist,lived in a building inhabitedby workers, people whorepaired homeostats androbots, maintained airshipsand shuttles, tended hydro-ponicgardens, lookedoutforsmall children in the Island’schild care center, andperformed other necessarytasks. Hassan had assumedthat there was no room forher elsewhere, and that her

quarterswouldbe temporary.Instead,Miriamhadadmittedtohimthatshehadrequestedspace there, and intended tostay.“Look,”shesaid,“Iwentto

a university, but a lot ofstudents there didn’t let meforget where I came from. Ifeel more comfortable withworkers than with thechildren of merchants andengineersandCounselorsandLinkers.” She had glanced at

him apologetically aftersaying that, obviously notwanting to hurt his feelings,but he had understood. Hisfamily’s position might havebroughthimtothisplace,butwith Miriam, he now had achancetomakehisownsmallmark on the Project, toinspireotherswith thedreamofVenus.“The Dream of Venus”—

thatwas howhe andMiriamreferredtothemind-tourthey

had been outlining androughing out for almost amonth now. He thought ofwhattheyhadbeensketchingand planning as he walkedtoward the star-shaped steel-blue building in whichMiriamlived.Astheyusuallydid at last light,workers hadgathered on the expanse ofgrassinfrontofthebuilding.Families sat on the grass,eatingfromsmallbowlswithchopsticks or fingers; other

people were talking withfriends, mending worngarments, or watching withpride and wonderment astheir children reviewed theirlessonsonpocketscreens.Allchildren were schooled here,unlikeEarth,whereeducationwas rationed and carefullyparceledout.It came to him then how

muchhenowlookedforwardto coming here, to meetingandworkingwithMiriam.

Hassanmadehiswaytotheentrance. Inside thewindowless building, peoplehad propped open the doorsto their rooms to sit in thecorridors and gossip; hepassed one group of mengambling with sticks anddice. The placewas as noisyand chaotic as a souk inJeddah, but Hassan hadgrown more used to thecacophony.Sincemostoftheworkers could not read, the

doors to their rooms wereadornedwith holo images orcarvingsoftheirfaces,sothatvisitors could locate theirquarters.Miriam’s roomwasnear the end of this wing; aholoimageofherfacestaredoutathimfromthedoor.Hepressedhispalmagainst

thedoor;afterafewseconds,itopened.Miriam,wearingabrowntunicandbaggybrownpants,wassittingonthefloorin front of herwall screen, a

thin metal band around herhead; even in such plainclothes, she looked beautifultohim.“Salaam,” she said without

lookingup.“Salaam.”“We’re making real

progress,” she said. “Thismind-tour is really shapingup.”He sat down next to her.

Unlikemost of the people inthis building, Miriam had a

roomtoherself,butitwasnotmuch larger than a closet.Building more residences ontheIslandswouldhavemeantcutting back on the gardensand parks that were deemedessential to maintaining thementalhealthoftheIslanders.“Before you show me any

of your rough cut,” he said,“would you care to havesupperwithmeasmyguest?”Thiswasthefirsttimehehadoffered such an invitation to

her; he had enough credit toorder imported delicaciesfromEarthforherifthatwaswhatshewanted.“Wecangoto the garden near theAdministrators’ building,unlessofcourseyou’d ratherdinesomewhereelse.”“Maybe later,” she said in

theflatvoicethatwassuchacontrasttoherlovelyfaceandgracefulmovements. “Iwantyoutolookatthisfirst.”Theyhaddecided to depart

from tradition in theirstructure for “The Dream ofVenus.” Miriam also wantedto dispense with the usualchronological depictions,which she found stodgy, andHassanhadreadilyagreed.Themind-tourwouldbegin

with Karim al-Anwar, asevery other depiction of theVenusProjectdid,butinsteadof the usual dramaticconfrontations with doubtersand passionate speeches

about Earth’s sister planetbecoming a new home forhumankind,theywouldmovedirectly to what Karim hadenvisioned—Venus as itwould be in the far future.The viewer would see theblue-green gem of atransformedVenus from afarandthenbeswepttowardtheterraformed planet, fallinguntil the surface was visiblethroughVenus’sveilofwhiteclouds. Flying low over the

shallowblueocean,themind-touristwouldbesweptpastasmall islandchaintowardthenorthern continent of Ishtar,with its high plateau andmountainmassifthatdwarfedeventheHimalayas,toviewaregion of vast grasslands,evergreenforests,andruggedmountain peaks. Then thewailofthewindwouldriseasthe viewer was carried southtoward the equator and thecolorful tropical landscapeof

thecontinentofAphrodite.Hassan was still tinkering

withthesoundeffectsforthatsection,buthadfoundapieceof music that evoked thesound of a strong wind, andplanned to use recordings ofthe powerful winds thatcontinuously swept aroundVenus below the Islands asbackground and undertones.Neartheendofthesequence,theviewerwouldflytowardaVenusiandawn,gazingatthe

sunbefore adark shape, partof what remained of theParasol, eclipsed its light.There were a few scientistswhodoubted thatanypartofthe Parasol would be neededlater on to insulate Venusfrom the heat and radiationthat could again produce arunaway greenhouse effect,butmostCytherianspecialistsdisagreed with them, andHassan and Miriam haddecided to go alongwith the

majority’s opinion in theirdepiction.At this point, the viewer

wastobesweptbackintime,so to speak, to one of theCytherian Islands, in amanner that would suggestwhat was not shown in themind-tour—namely that inthe distant future, whenVenus was green with life,theIslandswouldslowlydroptoward the surface, wheretheirinhabitantswouldatlast

leave their domed gardens todwell on their new world.Hassan and Miriam hadinserted a passage during theearlier flight sequence inwhichtheviewerpassedoveran expanse of parklike landthatstronglyresembledIslandTwo’sgardensandgrovesoftrees. That scene, with someenhancement,wouldresonateintheviewer’smindwiththesubsequentIslandsequences.“Whathaveyougottoshow

me?”Hassanasked.Miriamhandedhimaband.

“This is some stuff for theearliersequences,”shesaid.Hassanputthebandaround

his head, was momentarilyblind and deaf, and thenwassuddenly soaring over thevast canyon of the DianaChasmatowardtherift-riddendome of Ada Regio in theeastandtheshieldvolcanoofMaat Mons, the largestvolcano on Venus, three

hundred kilometers indiameter and rising to aHimalayan height.The sceneabruptly shifted to the steepmassif of Maxwell Montesrising swiftly from the hotdarksurfaceofIshtarTerraasmillions of years werecompressed into seconds.Hewhirled away from theimpressively high mountainmassif and hovered over avast basaltic plain, watchingaspart of the surface formed

adome,spreadout,grewflat,andthensank,leavingoneofthe round circular uniquelyVenusian features calledcoronae. He moved over thecracked and wrinkledplateaus called tesserae andwassurprisedatthebeautyheglimpsed in the deformedrockyfoldsoftheland.His field of vision abruptly

wentdark.“What do you think?”

Miriam’svoiceasked.

Heshiftedhisbandslightly;Miriam’sroomreappeared.“Iknow it’s rough,” shecontinued,“andI’vegotmoretoaddtoit,butIhopeitgivesyou an idea. As for soundeffectsandthesensorystuff,Ithinkweshouldkeepthattoaminimum—just a lowundertone, the baresuggestionofalowthrobbingnoise,andmaybeafeelingofextremeheatwithoutactuallymaking the viewer break out

inasweat.Well,whatdoyouthink?”Hassan said, “I think it’s

beautiful,Miriam.”Hiswordswere sincere. Somehow shehad taken what could havebeen no more than aimpressive visual panoramaand had found the beauty inthe strange, alien terrain ofVenus as it might have beensix hundred million yearsago. It was as if she hadfalleninlovewiththatworld,

almost as if she regretted itsloss.“If you think that’s

something,” she said, “waituntil you see what I’veworkedupfortheresurfacingsection, where we seevolcanoes flooding theplainswith molten basalt. But Iwant your ideas on what touse for sensory effects there,and you’ll probably want toadd some visuals, too—itseemsa little tooabbreviated

asitis.”“You almost make me

sorry,” Hassan said, “thatwe’re changing Venus, thatwhat it was will forever belost—alreadyislost.”Her gray eyes widened.

“That’s exactly the feeling Iwas trying for. Every mind-tour about Venus and theProject always tries for thesame effect—the feeling oftriumph in the end bybringingadeadworldtolife,

the beauty of the newEarthlike world we’remaking, the belief thatwe’recarrying out God’s will bytransformingVenusintowhatitmighthavebecome.Iwantthe mind-tourist at least toglimpse what we’re losingwith all this planetaryengineering, to feel somesorrowthatitisbeinglost.”Hassan smiled. “A little of

that goes a long way, don’tyouthink?We’resupposedto

be glorifying the Project, notregrettingit.”“Sometimes I do regret it

justa little.Imaginewhatwemighthavelearnedifwehadbuilt the Islands and simplyused them to observe thisplanet. There are questionswe may never answer nowbecause of what we’vealready changed. Did Venusonce have oceans that boiledaway? Seems likely, but weprobablywon’t ever be sure.

Wasthereeveraformof lifehere that was able to makeuseofultravioletlight?We’llnever know that, either. Wedecidedthatterraformingthisworld and giving all ofhumankind that dream andlearningwhatwe could fromthe work of the Projectoutweighedallofthat.”“Be careful, Miriam.”

Hassan lifted a hand. “Wedon’t want to question theverybasisoftheProject.”

“No,ofcoursenot.”Butshesounded unhappy aboutmaking that admission.Hassan would never haveinsulted her by saying thisaloud,butshesoundedalmostlike a Habber, one of thosewhose ancestors hadabandoned Earth long ago inthe wake of the ResourceWarstoliveinthehollowed-out asteroids and artificialworldscalledHabitats.Theremight be a few Habbers

living here to observe theProject, but they thought ofspace as their home, notplanetary surfaces.AHabbermight have claimed thatVenus should have been leftasithadbeen.“You’ve done wonderfully

with your roughs,” Hassanmurmured, suddenly wantingto cheer her. Miriam’s facebrightened as she glancedtoward him. “Really, if thefinalmind-tourmaintains the

quality of this work, we’llhave a triumph.”He reachedforherhandandhelditforamoment, surprised at howsmallanddelicateitfeltinhisgrip. “Let me take you tosupper,” he went on, andadmitted to himself at lastthat he was falling in lovewithher.

They would have amasterpiece, Hassan told

himself. Three months ofworking with Miriam hadfreed something inside him,had liberated a gift that hehadnot knownhepossessed.He felt inspiredwhenever hewas with her. In his privatemoments, as he reviewedsections of “The Dream ofVenus,” he grew even moreconvinced that their mind-tour had the potential forgreatness.There, in one of the

segments devoted to theVenus of millions of yearsago,wasavastdarkplain,anocean of basalt covered byslender sinuous channelsthousandsofkilometerslong.A viewer would soar overshield volcanoes, some withridges that looked like thinspider legs, others with lavaflows that blossomed alongtheirslopes.Themind-touristcould roamon theplateauofIshtar and look up at the

towering peaks of theMaxwell Mountains, shiningbrightly with a plating oftellurium and pyrite. Whatmight have been only asuccession of fascinating butultimately meaninglessgeological panoramas hadbeenshapedbyMiriamintoamoving evocation of aplanet’s life, a depiction of atrulyalienbeauty.Hassan had contributed his

own stylings to the mind-

tour; he had shaped andedited many of the scenes,and his sensory effects hadaddedgreatlytothemoodsofawe and wonder that themind-tour would evoke. Ithadbeenhisideatoframetheentiremind-tourasthevisionof Karim al-Anwar, and tobegin and endwith what thegreat man might havedreamed, a device that alsoallowed them to leave outmuch of the tedious

expository material that hadcluttered up so many mind-toursdepictingVenusandtheProject. But Miriam was thespirit that had animated him,thathadawakenedhimtothevisions and sounds that hadlaindormantinsidehim.Thefulfillmenthefeltinthe

work they were doingtogether wasmarred by onlyonenaggingworry:that“TheDream of Venus” was indangerofbecominganodeto

Venus past, a song of regretfor the loss of theworld thatmostsawassterileanddead,but which had become sobeautiful in Miriam’srenderings. What theAdministratorswantedwas aglorification of the Project, amind-tour that would end ona note of optimism andtriumph. They were unlikelyto accept “The Dream ofVenus” as it was, withoutrevisions,andmightevensee

itasvaguelysubversive.But there was still time,

Hassan told himself, toreshape the mind-tour when“The Dream of Venus” wasnearly in final form. He didnot want to cloud Miriam’svision in the meantime withdoubts and warnings; he didnotwant to losewhathehaddiscoveredinhimself.He and Miriam were now

eating nearly all of theirmeals together and

conducting their courtship atnight, in her bed or his own.Hehad admitted his love forher,asshehadconfessedhersfor him, and soon the othermembers of their geologicalteamandtheresidentsoftheirbuildings were asking themboth when they intended tomake a pledge. Hassan’smother was the cousin of aMukhtar, and his father hadalways hoped that Hassanwouldalsotakeaninfluential

woman as a bondmate, butPyotr could not justifiablyobject to Miriam, who hadwon her place withintelligenceandhardwork.Inany event, by the time hefinally told his father that helovedMiriam enough to joinhis life to hers, their mind-tourwouldhavesecuredtheirstatus here. Pyotr could takepride in knowing that agrandchild of his would beborn on the Islands, that his

descendantsmightonedaybeamong thosewhowould liveonVenus.That was something else

“The Dream of Venus” hadrousedinsideHassan.Hehadcome here thinking only ofdoinghisbestnottodisgracehisfamily.NowthedreamofVenushadbeguntoflowerinhim.

“WethinkthattheProjecthas

no true ethical dilemmas,”Miriam was saying, “that itcan’t possibly be wrong toterraform a dead world.We’renotdisplacingany lifeforms, we’re not destroyinganother culture and replacingitwithourown.Butthereisakind of arrogance involved,don’tyouthink?”Hassan and Miriam were

sitting on a bench outside agreenhousenearIslandTwo’sprimary school. They often

came here after last light,when the children had leftandthegroundsadjoiningtheschoolwerestillandsilent.“Arrogance?” Hassan

asked. “I suppose there is, ina way.” He had engaged insuch discussions before, atuniversity, and it had beennaturalforhimandMiriamtotalk about the issues theProject raised while workingon “The Dream of Venus.”Lately, their conversations

hadtakenonmoreintensity.“Godgaveusnaturetouse,

as long as we use it wiselyand with concern for otherlife forms,” Miriam said,repeating the conventionalviewpromulgatedbyboththetrue faith of Islam and theCouncil of Mukhtars.“Terraforming Venus istherefore justified, since themeasure of value isdetermined by the needs ofhuman beings. And if you

want to strengthen thatargument, you can throw inthe fact that we’re bringinglife to aworldwhere no lifeexisted,whichhastoberatedas a good. On top of that,there’s the possibility thatVenus was once much likeEarth before a runawaygreenhouseeffectdiditin,soto speak. Therefore, we’rerestoringtheplanettowhatitmighthavebeen.”Hassan, still holding her

hand, was silent; theassertions were much toofamiliar for him to feel anyneed to respond. He waslooking for an opening inwhichtobringupasubjecthecould no longer avoid. “TheDream of Venus” was closeto completion, and therewaslittle time for them to do theediting and make therevisions thatwere necessaryif their mind-tour was to beapproved for distribution by

the Administrators and theProject Council. He did notwant to think of how muchcredit he and Miriam mightalreadyhavecost theProject.Allofthatcredit,andmore—perhaps much more—wouldbe recovered by the mind-tour;hewasconfidentofthat.Buthehadbroachedtheneedfor editing to Miriam onlyindirectlysofar.“Youcouldarguethatallof

life, not just human life and

what furthers its ends, hasintrinsic value,” Miriamcontinued,“but thatwouldn’tcount against the Project,onlyagainstforcingVenustobeareplicaofEarthevenifitlater shows signs ofdeveloping its own distinctecology in ways that differfromEarth’sandwhichmakeit less habitable—or nothabitable at all—by humanbeings.Youcouldsaythatweshould have abandoned our

technology long ago andlived in accordance withnature,thereforeneverhavingthe means to terraform aworld, but that has alwaysbeenanextremistview.”“And unconstructive,”

Hassansaid.Atthispoint,hethought, humankind wouldonly do more damage toEarth by abandoningadvanced technology; solarpower satellites and orbitingindustrial facilities had done

much to lessen theenvironmental damage donetotheirhomeworld.“What Iworryaboutnow,”

she said, “isn’t just whatterraforming might do toVenus that we can’t foresee,but what it might do to us.Remaking a planetmay onlyfeed our arrogance. It couldlead us to thinkwe could doalmost anything. It couldkeep us from askingquestions we should be

asking. We might begin tobelievethatwecouldremakeanything— the entire solarsystem,evenoursun,toserveour ends. We might destroywhat we should bepreserving, and end bydestroyingourselves.”“Or transforming

ourselves,” Hassaninterjected. “You haven’tmade much of an argument,mylove.”“I’m saying thatwe should

be cautious. I’m saying that,whateverwedo,doubtshouldbepartoftheequation,notanarrogance that could becomea destructive illusion ofcertainty.”Those feelings, he knew,

layattheheartoftheirmind-tour. Uncertainty and doubtwere the instruments throughwhich finite beings had toexplore their universe. Thedoubts, the knowledge thateverygainmeantsomesortof

loss—all of that underlined“The Dream of Venus” andlenttheirdepictionitsbeauty.Andallofthatwouldmake

their mind-tour unacceptableto the men and women whowanted a sensory experiencethat would glorify theirProject and produce feelingsoftriumphandpride.“Miriam,”hesaid,tryingto

think of how to cajole herinto considering the changestheywould have tomake, “I

thinkweshouldstartthinkingseriouslyabouthowwemightrevise—howwemightmakesome necessary edits in ourmind-tour.”“There’shardlyanyediting

wehavetodonow.”“Imeantwhenit’sdone.”“But it’s almost done now.

It’s not going to be muchdifferentinfinalform.”“I mean—” Hassan was

havingadifficulttimefindingthe right words to make his

point.“Yourealize thatwe’llhave to dwell less on thefascinationofVenuspastandput more emphasis on theglory that will be ourtransformed Venus of thefuture.”She stared at him with the

blank gaze of someone whodid not understand what hewas saying, someone whomight have been talking to astranger. “You can’t meanthat,”shesaid.“Youcan’tbe

saying what it sounds likeyou’resaying.”“Ionlymeant—”She jerked her hand from

his.“Ithoughtwesharedthisvision, Hassan. I thought wewere both after the sameeffect,thesameend,thatyou—”“There you are.”

Muhammad Sheridan wascoming toward them alongthe stone path that ran pasttheschool.“IthoughtIwould

findyou twohere.”Hecameto a halt in front of them. “Iwould have left you amessage, but…”He paused.“Administrator Pavel isexceedingly anxious to viewyourmind-tour,soIhopeit’sclosetocompletion.”Hassan was puzzled. “He

wantstoviewit?”“Immediately,”Muhammad

replied. “I mean tomorrow,twohoursafterfirstlight.Hehas also invited you both to

be present, in his privatequarters,andItoldhimthatIwould be happy to tell youthatinperson.”Hassan could not read his

friend’sexpressioninthesoftsilvery light. Anticipation?Nervousness? Muhammad,who had recommendedHassan as a mind-tourcreator, would be thinkingthat a mind-tour that wonPavel’s approval might gainMuhammad more favor,

while a failure would onlymake Pavel doubt his aide’sjudgment.“It should be in final form

withinamonth,”Hassansaid.“We’re within the deadlinestill, but it needs morerefining.Couldn’twe—”“Of coursewe’ll be there,”

Miriamsaid.“Ithinkhe’llbepleased.”Therewas no traceofdoubtinhervoice.Hassanglanced at her; she took hishand. “I want him to

experience what we’vedone.”Hassanfeltqueasy,tryingto

imaginewhatPavelGvishianiwould think of “The Dreamof Venus,” searching hismind for an excuse hemightoffer to delay theAdministrator’s viewing ofthe mind-tour. Pavel mighthavevieweditatanytime;asan Administrator and aLinker, he could haveaccessed the work-in-

progress any time he wishedthrough the Islandcyberminds. But Hassan hadsimply assumed that Pavelwould be too preoccupiedwithhismanyotherduties tobother.“Well.” Hassan let go of

Miriam’shandandrestedhishands on his thighs.“Presumably he understandsthatit’snotinfinalform.”“Closetoit,”Miriamsaidin

her hard, toneless voice.

“Mightneedalittletweaking,butIdon’tseemuchroomforimprovement.”“And,” Hassan went on, “I

don’t knowwhyhewantsusboththere,inhisroom.”“It’s a matter of courtesy,”

Muhammad said. “Pavel ismostattentivetocourtesies.”Hassan peered at Miriam

fromthesidesofhiseyes;shewas smiling. “If you thinkabout it,” she said, “it’s kindof an honor, being invited to

hisprivatequartersandall.”Hassan’s queasiness left

him, to be replaced with afeelingofdread.

The forty minutes of sittingwith Pavel Gvishiani in hisroom, waiting as the Linkerexperienced the mind-tour,were passing too slowly andalso too rapidly for Hassan;too slowly, so that he hadample time to consider the

likely verdict theAdministrator would render,and too rapidly, toward themoment of judgment anddisgrace. While he waited,Hassan fidgeted on hiscushion, glanced around thesmall room, and studied thefewobjectsPavelhadplacedon one shelf—a cloisonnéplate,goldbandsforsecuringa man’s ceremonialheaddress, a porcelain vaseholdingoneblueglassflower.

Pavel, sitting on hiscushion, was still.Occasionally, his eyelidsfluttered over his half-openeyes.Hewore no band;withhis Link, he did not need abandtoviewthemind-tour.Iwillthinkoftheworstthat

can happen to me, Hassanthought as he stared at thetiny diamondlike gem onPavel’s forehead, and thenwhatever does happen won’tseem so bad. Pavel and the

Administrators would makehim reimburse the credit theProject had allocated to himduring his work on “TheDream of Venus.” He couldafford that, but his familywould regard it as a markagainsthim.Hispublicrecordwouldnotethathehadfailedat this particular task; thathumiliation would remainwith him until he couldbalance it with somesuccesses. His father, after

using his influence to getHassan a position with theProject, would be tainted byhis son’s failure and waslikely to find a way to getback at him for that, perhapseven by publicly severing allties with him. Muhammad,who had recommended himtoPavel,wouldno longerbehisfriend.AndMiriam—Heglancedatthewomanhe

hadcometobelieveheloved.Hereyesshifteduneasily;she

was frowning. He feltsuddenly angry with her fordrawing him so deeply intoher vision, for thatwaswhatshe had done; she hadseduced him with herinspiration. Maybe she wasfinally coming to understandthat their mind-tour was notgoing to win Pavel’sapproval. If theywere lucky,hemightsettleforcastigatingthem harshly and demandinga host of revisions. If they

were unlucky, he mightregard their failure to givehimwhathehadwantedasapersonalaffront.Pavelopenedhiseyes fully

and gazed directly at them,then arched his thick brows.“Both of you,” he saidquietly, “have producedsomething I did not expect.”Hepaused,allowingHassanamoment to collect himself.“Your mind-tour is amasterpiece. I would almost

callitaworkofart.”Miriam’s chest heaved as

she sighed. “Thank you,Administrator Pavel,” shewhispered. Hassan,bewildered,couldnotfindhisownvoice.“But of course we cannot

distribute The Dream ofVenus’ in this form,” Pavelcontinued,“andIamsureyouboth understand why wecan’t.Youstillhaveamonthof your allotted time left. I

expecttoseeaneditedmind-tour by the end of that timeand, depending on whatyou’veaccomplishedbythen,I can grant youmore time ifthat’s required. Iwon’t insultyour intelligence and artistryby telling you exactly whatkind of changes you’ll havetomake, and I am no experton designing mind-tours inanycase.Youknowwhatyouwill have to do, and I amcertain, God willing, that

you’ll find satisfactory waystodoit.”May theProphetbeforever

blessed, Hassan thought,almost dizzy with thisunexpected mercy. “Ofcourse,” he said. “I alreadyhavesomeideas—”“No,”Miriamsaid.Pavel’s eyes widened.

Hassan gazed at the womanwho was so trapped in herdelusions, wondering if shehadgonemad.

“No,”Miriamsaidagain,“Iwon’tdoit.Yousaidyourselfthat itwasamasterpiece,butI knew that before we camehere. You can do what youlike with ‘The Dream ofVenus,’butIwon’tbeapartytodefacingmyownwork.”“Miriam,” Hassan said

weakly, then turned towardPavel. “She doesn’t knowwhatshe’ssaying.”“I know exactly what I’m

saying. Edit our mind-tour

however you please, but I’llhavenothingtodowithit.”“Mydearchild,”Pavelsaid

inanoddlygentle tone,“youknow what this will mean.You know what theconsequencesmaybe.”Miriam stuck out her chin.

“Iknow.Idon’tcare.I’llstillhave the joy and satisfactionin knowing what we wereable to realize in that mind-tour, and you can’t take thataway fromus.”She regarded

Hassan with her hard grayeyes. Hassan realized thenthatsheexpectedhimtostandwith her, to refuse to do theAdministrator’sbidding.“Miriam,” he said softly.

You bitch, he thought,Pavel’s given us a way outandyourefusetotakeit.“I’llbegin work on the editing,”Hassan continued, “even ifmy colleague won’t. Maybeonce she sees how that’sgoing, realizes that we can

accomplish what’s neededwithoutdoingviolencetoourcreation, she’ll change hermindanddecidetohelpme.”He had to defend hersomehow,giveherthechanceto reconsider and step backfrom the abyss. “I’m sureMiriam justneeds some timetothinkitover.”Miriam said, “I won’t

change my mind,” and heheard thedisillusionmentanddisgust in her voice. She got

to her feet; Pavel lifted hishead to look up at her.“Salaam aleikum,Administrator.”“If you leave now, there

willbesevereconsequences,”Pavel said, soundingregretful.“Iknow,”Miriamsaid,and

lefttheroom.

Hassanfoundhimselfable tocomplete the editing and

revision of “The Dream ofVenus” a few days beforePavelwas to view themind-touragain.Thistime,hewentto the Administrator’squarters with moreconfidenceand less fear.Themind-tour now evoked thepride in the terraforming ofVenus and the sense ofmastery and triumph that theProject Council desired, andHassan was not surprisedwhen Pavel praised hiswork

and assured him that “TheDream of Venus” wouldbecome a memorable andtreasured experience for agreatmanypeople.Hassanhaddonehisbestto

keep some ofMiriam’smostpleasing scenes and effects,although he had cut some ofthemorehauntinglandscapesof early Venus and thebrooding, dark scenes thatseemed to deny any truepermanence to humankind’s

efforts. Itwas also necessaryto add more of the requiredscenesoftheProject’scurrentstate and recent progress.Hehad tried not to dwell on thefact that his editing and hisadditions were robbing themind-tour of much of itsbeauty, were taking anexperience suffused with thedoubtandambiguitythathadmade“TheDreamofVenus”unique and turning it into amore superficial and trite

experience.In any case, Hassan knew,

themeritofthemind-tourdidnot lie inwhat he thought ofit,butinhowPavelGvishianiand the other Administratorsjudged it, and they believedthat he had made it into awork that would bring morecredit to and support for theVenusProject, aswell as theapprovaloftheMukhtars.Miriam, with reprimands

and black marks now a part

of her record, and a debt tothe Project that would drainher accounts of credit, hadbeen advised by a Counselorto resign from the Project,advicethatwastheequivalentof a command. Within daysafter the Project Council hadapproved “The Dream ofVenus” in its final form,whichhadrequiredabitmoreediting,MiriamLucea-NoyeswasreadytoleaveforEarth.Hassan knew that it might

be better not to say farewellto her in person. Thatwouldonly evoke painfulmemoriesof their brief time together,and it could hardly help himtobeseenwithawomanwhowas in such disgrace.But hehad dreamed of sharing hislifewith her once, and couldnot simply let her go withonly a message from him tomarkherdeparture.Heowedhermorethanthat.On the day Miriam was

scheduled to leave, Hassanmet her in front of theentrance to her building. Shelooked surprised to see him,even thoughhis lastmessagetoherhadsaidthathewouldbe waiting for her there andwould walk with her to theairshipbay.“Youdidn’thavetocome,”

shesaid.“I wanted to see you once

more.” He took her duffelfromherandhoistedit tohis

shoulder.They walked along the

white-tiledpaththatledawayfrom the workers’ residencewhere they had passed somany hours together. There,atthesideofonewingofthebuilding,wasthecourtyardinwhich they had so often satwhile talking of their workand their families and theirhopes for their futuretogether.Theypassedasmallflower garden bordered by

shrubs, the same gardenwherehehadfirst tentativelyhinted that he might seek alastingcommitmentfromher,and then they strolled byanother courtyard, dottedwith tablesandchairs,wherethey had occasionally dined.PerhapsMiriamwould sufferlessbyleavingtheIslandthanhe would by staying.Wherever she ended up, shewouldbeabletogoaboutherbusiness without inevitably

findingherselfinaplacethatwould evoke memories ofhim, while he would haveconstantremindersofher.“Haveyouanyideaofwhat

you’llbedoing?”heasked.“I’ve got passage to

Vancouver,” she said. “Theexpense of sending me therewill be added towhat I owethe Project, andmy new jobwon’tamounttomuch,butatleastI’llbenearmyfamily.”Ifherfamilywerewillingto

welcomeherback, theywereshowing more forbearanceunder the circumstances thanhis own clan would havedone. As for her new work,he was not sure that hewanted to know much aboutit.Hertrainingandeducationwouldnotbeallowedtogotowaste,butadisgracedpersonwith a large debt to pay offwas not likely to be offeredany truly desirableopportunities. If Miriam was

lucky,shemighthavesecureda post teaching geology at asecond-rate college; if shewas less fortunate, shemightbegoingbacktoapositionasa rock hound, one of thosewho trained apprenticeminers bound for the fewasteroids that had beenbroughtintoEarthorbittobestripped of needed ores andminerals.“Don’t look so unhappy,”

Miriamsaidthen.“I’llgetby.

Idecidedtoacceptajobwitha team of assayers nearVancouver. It’s tedious,boringwork,butImightlookupafewofmyoldassociatesinthemind-tourtradeandseeif I can get any side jobsgoing for myself there. Atleast a couple of themwon’tholdmy blackmarks againstme.”“Administrator Pavel was

very pleasedwith the editingof The Dream of Venus,’“

Hassan said, suddenlywantingtojustifyhimself.“SoIheard.”“If you should ever care to

viewthenewversion—”“Never.” She halted and

looked up at him. “I have toaskyouthis,Hassan.Didyoupreserve our original mind-tourinyourpersonalrecords?Didyoukeepitforyourself?”“Did I keep it?”He shifted

her duffel from his leftshoulder to his right. “Of

coursenot.”“Youmight have done that

much. I thought that maybeyouwould.”“But there’s no point in

keepingsomethinglikethat.Imean, the revised version isthe one that will be madeavailable to viewers, sothere’s no reason for me tokeep an earlier version.Besides,ifothersweretofindout that I had such anunauthorizedmind-tourinmy

personal files, they mightwonder. It might look asthough I secretly disagreedwith Pavel’s directive. Thatwouldn’tdomeanygood.”“Yes,Isupposethat’strue,”

Miriam said. “You certainlydon’t want people thinkingless of you now that you’vewon the Administrator’srespect.”Her sardonic tonewounded

him just a little. “I don’tsuppose that you kept a

record of the originalversion,”hesaid.“Ididn’teventry.Iguessed

that my Counselor might gorooting around inmy files tosee if they held anythingquestionable, and wouldadviseme to delete anythinginappropriate, and I don’tneed anymore trouble.” Shesmiled,andthesmileseemedtocomefromdeepinsideher,as though she had acceptedherhard lotandwascontent.

“Let’s just say that theoriginal may not have beencompletely lost. Ihavehopesthat it will be safe, andappreciated.Idon’tthinkyouwant to know anymore thanthat.”“Miriam,”hesaid.“You know, I never could

stand long dragged-outfarewells.” She reached forherduffelandwresteditfromhis grip. “You can leave mehere.Youdon’thavetocome

to the airship bay with me.Goodbye,Hassan.”“GowithGod,Miriam.”Shewalkedawayfromhim.

He was about to follow her,then turned toward the paththat would take him to hisresidence.

During the years thatfollowed, Hassan did not trytodiscoverwhathadbecomeofMiriam.Better,hethought,

not to trouble himself withthoughts of his former love.His success with the alteredmind-tour had cemented hisfriendship with Muhammad,increased the esteem hisfellowgeologistshadforhim,and had brought him morerespect from his family onEarth.Within five years after the

release of “The Dream ofVenus,”Hassanwastheheadof a team of geologists, was

sometimes assigned to thepleasant task of creatingeducational mind-tours forIslandchildren,andhadtakena bondmate, Zulaika Jehan.Zulaika came from aMukhtar’s family, had beentrained as an engineer, andhad an exemplary record. IfHassan sometimes foundhimself looking intoZulaika’s brown eyes andremembering Miriam’s grayones, he always reminded

himself that his bondmatewas exactly the sort ofwomanhisfamilyhadwantedhim to wed, that his fatherhad always claimed thatmarrying for love was anoutworn practice inheritedfrom the decadent andexhausted West and bestdiscarded, and that takingMiriamasabondmatewouldonly have brought himdisaster.Occasionally,Hassan heard

rumorsofvariousmind-tourspassed along through privatechannels fromoneLinker onthe Islands to another,experiences that might beviolent, frightening,pornographic, or simplysubversive. He had alwaysstrongly suspected, eventhough no one would haveadmitted it openly, that hisfather and other privilegedpeople in his clan hadenjoyed such forbidden

entertainments, most ofwhichwouldfindtheirwaytothe masses only in editedform. It would be a simplematter for any Linker topreserve such productionsand to send them on tofriends through privatechannelsinaccessibletothosewho had no Links. Hassandid not dwell on suchthoughts,whichmightleadtodisturbing reflections on theways in which the powerful

maintained control of the netofcyberminds soas to shapeeven the thoughts andfeelingsofthepowerless.Onerumorinparticularhad

elicitedhisattention,arumorof a mind-tour about theVenus Project that farsurpassed any of the usualcliche-ridden productions,thatwas even superior to themuch-admired “The DreamofVenus.”Hehadtoyedwiththe notion that someone

might have come upon anuneditedcopyof“TheDreamofVenus,”thatthemind-tourhe and Miriam had createdmight still exist as she hadhoped it would, a ghosttraveling through thechannels of the cyberminds,coming to life again andweaving its spell beforevanishingoncemore.He did not glimpse the

possible truth of the matteruntil he was invited to a

reception Pavel Gvishianiwas holding for a fewspecialists who had earnedcommendations for theirwork. Simply putting thecommendations into thepublic record would havebeen enough, but Pavel haddecidedthatacelebrationwasin order. Tea, cakes, smallpastries, andmeat dumplingswere set out on tables in acourtyard near theAdministrators’ ziggurat.

Hassan, with his bondmateZulaika Jehan at his side,drew himself up proudly asAdministrator Pavelcirculated among his guestsin his formal white robe, histrusted aide MuhammadSheridanathisside.At last Pavel approached

Hassan and touched hisforehead in greeting.“Salaam, Linker Pavel,”Hassansaid.“Greetings, Hassan.” Pavel

pressedhisfingersagainsthisforehead again. “Salaam,Zulaika,” he murmured toHassan’s bondmate; Hassanwondered if Pavel hadactually recalledher nameorhad only been prompted byhisLink.“Youmustbequiteproud of your bondmate,”Pavelwenton.“Iamcertain,Godwilling, that thiswill beonly the first of severalcommendations for his skillinmanaginghisteam.”

“Thankyou,LinkerPavel,”Zulaika said in her softmusicalvoice.Pavel turned to Hassan.

“And I suspect that it won’tbe long before you winanothercommendationforthecredityouhavebroughttotheProject.”“Youaretookind,”Hassan

said. “One commendation ismore than enough, LinkerPavel. I am unworthy ofanother.”

“I must beg to contradictyou, Hassan. ‘The Dream ofVenus’ has been one of ourmost successful and popularentertainments.” A strangelook came into Pavel’s darkeyesthen;hestaredatHassanforalongtimeuntilhissharpgaze made Hassan uneasy.“Youdidwhatyouhadtodo,of course, as did I,” he said,so softly that Hassan couldbarelyhearhim,“yetthatfirstvision I saw was indeed a

work of art, and worthy ofpreservation.” Then theAdministrator was gone,movingawayfromHassantogreetanotherofhisguests.PerhapstheAdministrator’s

flattery had disoriented him,or possibly the wineMuhammad hadsurreptitiously slipped intohis cup had unhinged him alittle, but it was not until hewas leaving the receptionwith Zulaika, walking along

anotherpathwherehehadsooften walked with Miriam,that the truth finally came tohim and he understood whatPavelhadbeentellinghim.Their original mind-tour

might be where it would besafe and appreciated;Miriamhad admitted that much tohim. Now he imagined her,withnothingtolose,goingtoPavel and begging him topreserve their uneditedcreation; the Administrator

mighthave takenpityonherandgiven in toherpleas.Orperhaps it had not been thatway at all; Pavelmight havegone to her and shown hisesteemforherasanartistbypromising to keep heroriginalworkalive.Itdidnotmatter how it had happened,and he knew that he wouldneverhavethetemeritytogotoPavel andaskhimexactlywhat he had done. Hassanmight have the Linker’s

publicpraise,butMiriam,heknew now, had won theLinker’s respect by refusingtobetrayhervision.Shame filled him at the

thought ofwhat he had doneto “The Dream of Venus,”and then it passed; theauthenticdream,afterall,wasstill alive. Dreams hadclashed, he knew, and onlyone would prevail. But howwoulditwinout?Itwouldbethe victory of one idea, as

expressed in the finaloutcome of the Project,overlaid upon opposedrealities that could not bewishedaway.Tohissurprise,thesethoughtsfilledhimwitha calm,deeppleasurehehadrarely felt in his life, and“The Dream of Venus” wasaliveagaininsidehimforonebriefmomentofjoybeforeheletitgo.

Afterwordto“Dreamof

Venus”:Back in the 1970s, partlyinspired by Thomas Mann’syouthful masterpieceBuddenbrooks, Ihad the ideaof writing a family saga seton another planet. Since Iwanted to use a backgroundwithsomerootsinrealityandnot just a made-up planet, Ichecked out our own solar

system for likely prospects.Mars didn’t make the list,mostly because I wasn’tabout to compete with H.G.Wells, Ray Bradbury, C.S.Lewis, Robert A. Heinlein,and the legions of otherscience fiction masters(including, more recently,Greg Bear and Kim StanleyRobinson) who have madethe Red Planet their own.Venus suggested itself, andalso presented some

opportunities for femaleimagery, but this planet hadthemajor drawback of beingcompletely uninhabitable byour species. Happily, thepossibility, however distant,of terraforming a world, oftransforming an alien planetinto another Earth, couldovercome this obstacle.Terraforming also opened upmy story, changing it from agenerationalstoryofafamilyin decline to one about the

problems faced bygenerationsofterraformers.Originally, I intended to

write only one novel aboutVenus, but that one novelgrewintothree.HadIknowninthebeginninghowlongthefirstnovel,VenusofDreams,would be, and that thesecond, Venus of Shadows,wouldbelongerstill,Imightnever have undertaken theproject. Had I seen that overtwenty-five yearswould pass

between my first Venusianinspiration and thepublication of the third andfinal volume in this group,Child of Venus, in 2001, Iwould have abandoned thewhole business back in the1970swithoutwritingaword.Perhapsnotbeingabletoseeinto one’s own future is amercy, ormaybe this simplymeans that it takes a certainamount of obsession,determination,andinsanityto

undertake any long-rangeproject, whether it isterraforming a planet orwriting a trilogy of over twothousandmanuscriptpagesinlength.“Dream of Venus” was

written after I had finishedChildofVenusandwasunderthespellofmuchrereadingofEdith Wharton, when itoccurred to me that theremightbeastoryformeabouta very privileged young

gentleman,someonefromtheuppercirclesofmyimaginedfuture society, who becomesinvolved with the effort toterraform Venus. But therewere probably otherunconscious reasons forwriting this story, amongthem a desire to return for awhile to a world that I hadbeenwritingabout fornearlyhalfmylife.

TOOMANYMEMORIESI wasn’t the first to practicemyprofession,but Iwasoneof the pioneers, before weunderstood the scope of theproblem we faced. My firstclient was Mamie Lagerfelt,andhermemoryfileswereinsuch disorder that she hadeven forgotten how manyother names she had used.What shedid remembervery

clearly (and I was struck bythe irony of this later)was aheadline she had seen on anews item a century earlier—“No More SeniorMoments,” on a story aboutthe first successful testing ofthe gene therapy forAlzheimer’s Disease.Mamie’s great fear hadalways been that she wouldfallvictimtoAlzheimer’s,ashadseveralofherrelatives.“Weusedtocall itasenior

moment,” she explained,“whenyoudidsomethinglikeforget the name of one ofyour children, just drew acomplete blank.” She nolonger had to worry aboutAlzheimer’s and having herlast years filled with “seniormoments.” Her memory andher sense of herself wouldremainintact.You’resmiling,but as I said, we didn’t yetknow what we were facing.We were still calling

ourselves “memory coaches”or “personal organizers,” asourclientswereputoffbytheterm “therapist.” And backthen,most of us thought thattheproblemweweretreatingwaslargelyoneofuntidyanddisorganizedminds that onlyneeded some straighteningup.Mamie Lagerfelt had

always beenmessy, and alsosomething of a pack rat.Consequently, after having

gone through her firstmemoryclearanceprocedure,shecouldn’tbeartogetridofanything permanently: shehad downloaded and savedoldmemories inherpersonalartificial intelligence; in hertown’sAl;intheNovumCitymemory banks; in herdaughter’snewneuralstoragesystem; and elsewhere, andeven her Al link couldn’tlocate specific memorieswithoutanextensivesearch—

at theendofwhichsheoftenforgot what memories shehad been looking for in thefirst place. Some tidying up,proper organization of hermemoriesineasilyaccessiblefiles—I thought that wouldsolvetheproblem.It took months to help

Mamie organize hermemories. But it wasbecoming evident that hermental untidiness andexasperating incoherence

weresymptomaticofadeeperdisorder than meresloppiness. I wasconferencing with a fewcolleaguesbythen,andallofthem reported similarproblemswiththeclientstheywere coaching. “There’s noframework there,” DorotheaSinghsaidtome,“nothingtohangthememorieson.”Yes, that’s right—Dorothea

Singh, the founder ofNarrative Therapy and

Reconstruction. By now youmay have guessed thatMamie Lagerfelt was the“Client X” of Dorothea’smostfamouscasehistory.You already know what

Dorothea’s most importantinsight was; namely that thereasonourclienthadsomuchtrouble with her memorieswas that she possessed nonarrative structure on whichto locate them. Mamie’smemories had become

isolated events, fragmentswithoutcontext.Shecouldn’treally remember them, evenafter she accessed them,becausetheyweren’tpartofastory.For Mamie, recalling too

many memories was asconfusing for her as nothavinganyatall.In retrospect, Dorothea’s

insight into this dysfunctionseems obvious. Mamie—andother “first generation”

longlifers—lacked a sense ofcontinuity. They were easilydistracted, incapable ofextended periods ofconcentration; people whohad experienced life as aseries of discrete momentswith no unifying framework.The central principle ofnarrative therapy, accordingto Dorothea, was thatmemory and coherentrecollection lay in the abilitytotellastory,tomakeanepic

ofallofone’smemories.Mamie, as had so many

others, had drifted passivelyfrom one event to the next,from one distraction toanother,andthathadseverelydamaged her ability to tellstories about herself, toweave the fabric of hermemories and life into acontinuousnarrative.Becauseshecouldn’ttellagoodstory,shecouldn’t really rememberanything, even when the

incidents of her life wereeasily available forrecollection.Being a memory coach

wasn’t enough; we had tobecome narrative therapists,and the demand for ourservices could only grow.ThereweremanylikeMamie,people who had been unableto resist the distractions oftheir time, who had becomelittlemore than spectators ofevents and passive

participants in simulatedexperiences. But we hadhopes…Yes, our failures were

legion.It’salmostimpossibletohaveasuccessfuloutcomeunless the client iswilling toerase his past memoriesentirely and start afresh.That’s simply too close todeath for most people;however fragmented a selfmight be, it rarely wants tolosethatself.Butinthelives

of the few who had avoidedMamie’s problem, we saw aremedy—betteryet, away topreventnarrativedysfunction.These few were the

fortunate ones who hadexercised their minds, whohad read many books invarious formats and studieddifficult subjects in depth,who had built up the neuralconnections in their brainsthatgave themthecontinuitythey needed to tell good

stories.Longnovelswithlotsof characters and narrativestrands, lengthy historicalaccounts that enable one tounderstand one’s historicalcontext—that’s the way tobuild yourself up. Work outwith some Tolstoy andBalzac, maybe someDickens!Even better, keep ajournal, master the art oftelling or writing a goodstory.All that’snecessary,asthe old saying goes, is to sit

downandopenavein.Excuse me—I got carried

away. Historically, suchpursuits were always theprovinceofthefew,andnowwe have even moredistractionsthanpeopledidintheolddays.Irealizethatwenarrative therapists areprobably fighting a losingbattle, but stories must betold!Ourhealthdemandsthisspecial way of ordering ourminds!

Well, I hope you have agood story to tell me. Ihaven’t heard a good onelately.

Afterwordto“TooMany

Memories”:Andherethesestoriesend.

Allrightsreserved,includingwithoutlimitationtherighttoreproducethisbookoranyportionthereofinanyformorbyanymeans,whetherelectronicormechanical,nowknownorhereinafterinvented,withouttheexpresswrittenpermissionofthepublisher.

Theseareworksoffiction.Names,characters,places,events,andincidentseitheraretheproductof

theauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,businesses,companies,events,orlocalesisentirelycoincidental.

“TheOtherPerceiver”byBarryN.Malzberg.Copyright©2002byBarryN.Malzberg.“TheSleepingSerpent.”Copyright©1992byPamelaSargent.FirstappearedinAmazingStories,January1992atfidinWhatMight

HaveBeen,Volume4,AlternateAmericas,editedbyGregoryBenfordandMartinH.Greenberg(NewYork:Bantam,1992).“TheMountainCage.”Copyright©1983byPamelaSargent.FirstappearedasachapbookpublishedbyCheapStreet,NewCastle,Virginia;JanO’NaleandGeorgeO’Nale,publishers.“CommonMind.”Copyright©2000byWizardsoftheCoast,Inc.FirstappearedinAmazingStories,

Issue600,January2000.“AllRights.”Copyright©1994byTSR,Inc.FirstappearedinAmazingStories,Fall1994.“DannyGoestoMars.”Copyright©1992byPamelaSargent.FirstappearedinIsaacAsimov’sScienceFictionMagazine,October1992.“HillaryOrbitsVenus.”Copyright©1999byWizardsoftheCoast,Inc.FirstappearedinAmazingStories,Spring1999.

“Fears.”Copyright©1984byPamelaSargent.FirstappearedinLightYearsandDark,editedbyMichaelBishop(NewYork:BerkleyBooks,1984).“TheNovellaRace“Copyright©1978byDamonKnight.FirstappearedinOrbit20(NewYork:Harper&Row,1978).“Collectors.”Copyright©1996byPamelaSargent.FirstappearedinCastleFantastic,editedbyJohnDeChancieandMartinH.

Greenberg(NewYork:DAW,1996).“Isles.”Copyright©1996byPamelaSargent.FirstappearedinPhantomsoftheNight,editedbyRichardGilliamandMartinH.Greenberg(NewYork:DAW,1996).“TheSummer’sDust.”Copyright©1981byMercuryPress,Inc.FirstappearedinTheMagazineofFantasy&ScienceFiction,July1981.

“DreamofVenus.”Copyright©2000byPamelaSargent.FirstappearedinStarColonies,editedbyMartinH.GreenbergandJohnHelfers(NewYork:DAW,2000).“TooManyMemories.”Copyright©2000NaturePublishingGroup.FirstappearedinNature,November30,2000.

Copyright©2004byPamelaSargent

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