Psychoshop

FIVE · BRAINS AND BISCUITS

Finally, the emerald city slowed in its growth and came to a halt. I applauded lightly.

"Well-citied, lady."

She clinked her glass against my own and we finished

the wine.

Then she rose and nodded toward her handiwork.

"The tour, of course," she said.

"Of course," I responded, and we linked arms and hiked off toward the city singing, "We're off to see the wizard."

"You say that you really are a writer for an American magazine," she said, after catching her breath.

"I not only say it, I am."

"Does that mean you'll be going home once you've gathered enough material?"

"Be serious, " I said. "I don't have a story. No one's going to believe all this. I just want to be here with you."

"I like your attitude, Alf," she said, and she entered the gates of the city and took me in.

We wandered the streets and galleries, then took high bridges over broad thoroughfares, had views from a dozen lofty apartments. Moving like green thoughts in a green brain, we explored tunnels, parks, plazas, commercial dis­tricts. The place was quiet save for our voices, our footfalls, our echoes, and a few creaks of settling structures.

It was as I swung my left foot forward, passing beneath an archway, that I knew it would come from my right— whatever it was. And Glory was to my left.

I felt my body relaxing downward into my midsection as, with the motion of my left foot, I kept all of my weight on the right and pivoted on it, drawing the left back, in­ward.

Suddenly, two men came around the corner at my right. The nearer threw a punch at me. The one to his right was reaching for Glory. Then another came into view behind them. I struck immediately, with my left foot, at the nearest shin. I felt a satisfying grating as the man's expres­sion turned to one of pain. With the second knuckle of the second finger of my left hand, I drove a blow into the hollow of his right temple, most of my weight behind it. He began to fall, but I caught hold of him, turned him slightly, and pushed him into the man who was reaching for Glory.

Continuing my turning motion to my left, letting my arms lead it, I dropped to my left knee, raising my right fist to somewhere in the vicinity of my left ear. I uncoiled imme­diately as I rose, driving my right elbow into the low midsection of the second man.

Then I was rising as he was bending forward—in slow motion, it seemed—and my left hand rose and fell, striking him across the back of his neck, my weight sinking again with the strike.

Pivoting leftward as he fell, to where the man I had knocked off-balance with the body of the first had recov­ered, I leapt over his fallen companion. The man snapped a kick and threw a punch at me. I slid my left foot forward, turning, avoiding the kick, parrying the punch. My left arm passed behind him as I continued the turn, hand falling to rest upon his left shoulder.

I attacked his eyes with my right hand, but he was able to catch my wrist. Immediately, I raised my left hand from his shoulder, caught hold of his left ear, and, with a twisting, wrenching movement, tore it loose.

He screamed and his grip on my right wrist wavered as I let my left hand fall back to his shoulder, dropped my cen­ter, turned and, continuing my attack on his eyes, took him over backwards. As he struck the ground, my right elbow dropped to strike him in the solar plexus. This brought him partway upright again, and a perfect target for the blow that crushed his larynx.

I rose, still alert, but there were no others. I brushed dust from my left knee. Glory spat once, to her left, and I glanced at her in time to see her tongue dart, her lower jaw change position.

"Getting rid of some venom?" I asked.

She shrugged, then smiled. "Reflex," she said. "You're a very good fighter, All"

"Grew up in a tough neighborhood," I said.

"That was not tough neighborhood fighting, Alf. Those were killing techniques. You know them well and you used them without hesitation. The seven clones all had reputa­tions as deadly warriors. Even Pietro, the artist, was a brawler—hung out with Cellini a good deal."

I gestured.

"So who might these guys be, and why do you think they attacked us?" I asked.

Even as I spoke, they vanished like pictures from a screen.

"Nobody in particular," she replied. "Omniality's Cen­tral Casting sent them over when I UHFed my wishes on the way up here."

"Testing. You could have just asked me," I said. "I'd have told you I'm pretty good in a scrap. Even studied a lit­tle self-defense technique, here and there."

"That was all offense, Alf."

"Generic term," I said. "Thanks for showing me the city. Is there anything else?"

"Don't be angry," she said. "It was too good an opportu­nity to pass up. No real danger. Let me show you the rest of the place. There is a lovely apartment with a master bed­room in the highest spire. Wonderful view."

She took my arm.

"No more surprises?"

"Only pleasant ones," she said.

Nor was she incorrect. Later, we lay for a long while, drows­ing, watching through the spire's great window as the day dimmed over our deserted city. An almost spiritual feeling of satisfaction came upon me in my sated state as I watched the spire's long, pointed shadow go forth, along with those of the domes at its base. I remarked, "Hsssss."

"'Hssss,'" she replied.

"Hs hsss."

"Hss. Thank you."

"You've installed a day-night cycle here."

"Yes, everything for verisimilitude," she said.

I stretched and sat up. "Shall we go and walk under the stars? Head back to our grove?"

"Hs— Damn!" she said. "Stars. I forgot. Sorry." She raised a hand and pointed at the sky. A bright point of light burst within the heavens. "There," she said. "A promise. It will hold us until I can fetch more."

She sat up and fumbled after her clothing. I did the same. The landscapes of our bodies were fiery in the red star's light.

Minutes later, arms about each other, we entered the lift and plunged earthward. As we passed out of the city she gestured lightly and a sprinkling of stars occurred in the eastern half of the sky. "They figure in the earliest con­sciousness of the race," she commented. "Some anthropolo­gists tell us that the earliest myths, with their hopes, fears, and ideals, had their roots in the constellations. Or was it the other way around? No matter. Religion, philosophy, tales of adventure and romance may all go back to the pic­tures in the sky." She gestured again and the Big Dipper appeared.

"Uh, how does a dipper figure in religion, philosophy, and romance?" I asked.

She paused, there on the hilltop, and stared at it, wrin­kling her nose in a most becoming fashion. "You want to talk principles or you want to talk cases?" she asked.

"Sorry."

"You want religion and philosophy—romance and adventure, too—there!" She waggled a finger at the western sky and a constellation I had never seen before appeared—a great snaky showpiece twisted into the rough approxima­tion of a figure eight, glowing with a multicolored mass of gemlike stars.

"My God! That's lovely!" I said.

"From my home world—Serpena—Ouroboros can be seen. And there is God's Web, from Arachne V." She indi­cated its net-like lineaments in the northeast. "... And the Reflected Face." she said, pushing aside the Dipper to hang a blazing countenance, only vaguely human, at midheaven.

Walking on, discussing life, cosmology, ethics, and the fine structure constant, she continued to rearrange the skies, announcing, periodically, "The Finger of Manu," "Mother Tree," and "Heaven's Staff Car."

Finally, with great care and explanation, she created some of her own, to demonstrate the complexes of psycho­logical, anthropological, and animistic/philosophical notions which must have colored our primitive ancestors' thinking when they turned their gaze skyward. Glory's own constel­lations were graceful, profound, to the point.

Gathering our picnic supplies, we moved to exit the world she had made, somehow wiser, pleased that our rela­tionship had graduated from the merely physical to higher intellectual levels where we experienced each other's thought processes with amazing congruity and full agree­ment as to life's major values and the ends of philosophy. Reaching for the door to our other reality, I bade the night good night.

Back in our kitchen drinking a cup of coffee, I did a sudden review of my situation: If I were to believe what I had been told, I was a clone, identical to seven guys hanging in the Hellhole. I was also, somehow, from the distant future. For these reasons, Adam had made me a temporary junior exec­utive so that he could keep an eye on me. Medusa, my Glory, may or may not have set out initially to seduce me only to learn what information she could, but now it was for real. Now it was genuine affection we felt for each other. Of course, she had learned everything she could about me along the way. . . .

I had to admit that I hadn't thought much lately con­cerning my ability to defend myself, as the need to do so had not occurred in recent years. Had I really picked all that up on the street, in the old neighborhood? I knew I hadn't got­ten it at Brown.

''Glory," I said, looking across the room to where she was preparing herself a small ethnic dish I did not wish to scrutinize too closely, "I want to get to the bottom of this thing as badly as you do, so here's my plan."

"Yes?" she responded.

"I am going to finish my coffee, throw the Switch, and wish myself to my office at Rigadoon magazine in New York."

"They may be closed. Hard to say what the time will be."

I shrugged.

"In that case, I will go to my apartment and call my boss, Jerome Egan. It's no coincidence that I was given this assignment—not with my clones hanging around in there." I gestured toward the Hellhole. "I've got to find out how it came about, who set it up. I've got to learn how I could be the two different people I'd pretty much have to be."

"And if you can learn that?"

"I'll come back and tell you, and we can figure out what to do about it."

"Either that, or it will remind you of your agenda, and when you return we will no longer be friends."

"Granting that such a thing might happen, you have no way of knowing it for certain."

She shook her head, a slow undulation.

"Then you shall accompany me, to learn for yourself whatever I learn."

She tasted the thing in the pan and smiled, then trans­ferred it to a dish.

"And if I learn something terrible shall I kill you?" she asked.

I laughed, a little too tightly.

"We all do what we must," I said. "Sometimes that includes trust."

She cut a portion of the fare and ate it. "Very well," she said then. "I'll go with you."

We both laughed. I watched her sharp teeth flash as I finished my coffee.

Looking eminently rested and respectable in the foyer's small mirror, I moved to the niche and threw the Switch. Then I went to the door and flung it wide. Evening shadows lay upon the Etruscan Forum.

"Morning in New York," I said. "I think my timing's good."

Then my gaze was caught by a wine bottle where before I had seen a bundle of rags. I stooped and retrieved it from the entranceway, held it up, and turned it slowly.

"Strange shape," Glory remarked.

I passed it to her.

"Classic Klein bottle format," I said, "the visualization of which was once explained by Isaac Asimov as follows: Imagine a goose that bends its neck forward and begins eating its way downward into its own midsection. After a time, its head emerges from its anus and it opens its beak wide. Quietus. Freeze-frame. This is how these things are done."

"Fascinating," she said, setting it atop a side-table as I secured the door. "And that is the bottle you gave to Urtch?"

"Yes. Ruffino."

She nodded and took my arm.

"The universe chooses to address us in a typical fashion. Take me to your office, Alf."

"Indeed, m'lady."

I adjusted my ascot, visualized, and wished.

A moment later we stood in my office in Manhattan. I cast a quick glance about me. Everything seemed to be where I'd left it.

"They don't seem to have fired me in my absence," I said.

I opened my door and stepped into the larger, outer office.

Empty. Still. According to the clock, it should be bustling. I moved to the nearest desk and consulted its day-calendar.

"Sunday," I announced. "It's what I get for losing track. Easily remedied, though. We can wish our way back, then have the singularity deliver us two days ago, or tomor­row. ..."

"No!" she said. "It's not good to play with Time in mat­ters which ultimately involve Time."

"A future superstition?"

"More than that. There are ways for Time to gang up on you."

"Okay. No problem. I'll just phone Jerry from here." I returned to my office, got an outside line, punched his number.

"Jerry," I said, "it's me, Alf."

"Where are you?"

"Here in town. At the office."

"Was there a story? Or are you writing it off?"

"No story yet, but there's a lot of interesting material. I just came back for a few things I need. I wanted to ask you something about this assignment, though."

There followed a silence. Then, "Like what?" he said.

"Oh, how it came to be—just now. Why I got—"

"Alf. Go home."

"But—"

"Just go home and wait."

He hung up.

"We're meeting at my apartment," I said. "Is it okay to jump back to Rome and then jump there, so long as I don't mess with Time? Or—"

"Take a taxi," she told me.

Growling, I led her through the offices. How could I have been plotting bizarre plots when I remembered work­ing here for so long?

We descended and walked a couple of blocks before we located a cab. It was easy to be spoiled by the Hellhole.

My place was as I had left it, relatively neat—as the cleaning lady had been by that final morning—and I showed Glory the living room, dining room, kitchen, and den. We entered the bedroom, where she gazed at the king-sized bed, and said, "We really ought to, before we go back."

"Indeed," I replied. "It would be a shame—" and the callbox buzzed.

"Alf here, "I said.

"There's a Mr. Egan wants to see you."

"Send him up," I said.

I felt a strong need to empty my bladder.

"Excuse me, Glory," I said. "Won't be but a minute."

After I'd switched on the light and closed the bathroom door behind me, however, I'd a feeling it might be a little more than a minute. It had to do with the way my reflection maintained eye contact while talking to me:

"Alf," it said, "don't try to make it a dialogue. Just listen. I am your earlier self, and this message is a post-hypnotic implant. It could only be set off if you were working on the soul-swapper story, had returned for information concern­ing the assignment, and had a message that your boss was on his way to see you. That triggered the bladder reflex and the present ambience is stimulus for the rest. You must remember that I am Paul Jensen—meaning that you were Paul Jensen. This will self-explain in a few minutes. I have ranged up and down several decades to set this up. The rest should self-explain later. Ask Jerry all the questions you were going to ask him. Then, afterwards, ask him to dowse your apartment. This is very important. We've concealed—"

There came a knocking on the door.

"Yes?" I asked.

"I believe your boss is just outside," she said.

"Wait a minute. Don't let him in," I told her. "First, go to the shorter chest of drawers, across the room from the foot of the bed. Third drawer down. Get me a fresh pair of shorts."

"Sure thing, Alf."

The post-hypnotic had not included any special relief for the micturition response. Hence, my bladder had decided to take care of itself while I listened to my earlier self, and I hadn't even noticed till Glory knocked. I'd have to remem­ber that if I ever set up another of these. Too bad about the end of the message, though.

There came a short knock, the door opened a few inches, and a slim hand entered, bearing a pair of my shorts.

"Thanks."

After cleaning myself and tossing the damp ones into the hamper, I let myself out and followed the voices to the living room.

"Jerry," I said, "thanks for being so prompt. This is Glory. She works at—"

"Yes, we've met," he responded, wringing my hand more briskly than usual. He took a step toward a chair, paused, and said, "Terribly busy week. You have some prob­lem with the current job?"

"No, no problem," I said. "Just something concerning how it came about. Sit down and let me get you a cup of coffee—or something stronger, if you'd like."

He made a show of looking at his watch.

"What the hell. Make it a Scotch and soda," he said.

"Glory?"

"A tough, dry, red wine."

"Okay."

"What's wrong with this picture?" I said. "I got the soul-changer assignment."

"It's your sort of story. You've always enjoyed investi­gating the oddball, off-the-beaten-track sort of thing."

"Agreed. But this time there was more to it—some directive, some pressure, some caution to secrecy."

He sighed and stared into his glass. Then he nodded and took a sip.

"Yes, there was a telephone call. From one of the pub­lishing company's owners. He said he wanted the story cov­ered now. And he wanted you to do it. I was not to mention his name."

"How about half of his name?" I asked. "Like if I were to say 'Paul'?"

"And I were to say 'Jensen'?"

"Yes," I replied. "Actually, it's fairly innocuous. We're related, and it looks like he thought he was doing me some sort of favor. It is my sort of thing, and he knew the place was not all that well-known. I think he wanted to give me an exclusive."

I took a drink.

"I'd rather you didn't mention I told you," he said.

"No, I won't. Nothing really turns on it now. I just wanted to check on a suspicion."

"I'll have to start being nicer to you."

I laughed. "One more thing," I said, "and you're ahead of the game."

"What's that?"

"I'd like you to dowse the apartment."

"Thinking of digging a well?"

"No, but I've misplaced something and I've heard that you guys can find anything."

"That's my old man. I'm rusty."

"Please."

"Sure. Get me a wire coathanger."

I went off to a closet and brought one back for him. He crimped it in the middle and bent both arms downward.

"All right," he said. "What are we looking for?"

"Give me a thrill and try without knowing/' I said. "I've heard that it doesn't really matter."

He rose.

"So long as you don't do an article about it for someone else." Holding the hanger by its two arms he strolled the length of the room, entered the dining area, and turned left. "It's in the bedroom," he said, as he went in there.

We followed him. The hanger seemed to jerk to his right. Glory licked her lips and followed him toward the taller dresser, standing between the closet and bathroom doors. She followed him on his right, I on his left as he approached it. The wire jerked downward, indicating the second drawer. Glory reached forward and drew it open. Handkerchiefs and shorts to the right, rolled socks to the left. . .

. . . and I knew somehow, even before Jerry's hanger began drifting leftward. I reached forward, plunged my hand in among the socks, and felt around. Glory uttered a brief hiss as I located and withdrew a small, strangely heavy, cheap-looking, cloth-covered box. I flipped it open immedi­ately to reveal a pair of oval, gray metal cuff links inscribed with a Celtic design.

"That what you were looking for, Alf?" Jerry asked.

"Yes. Thank you very much."

"Hardly anyone wears cuff links these days," he observed.

"I do have a use for them and these are of particular sentimental value," I said, suddenly somehow understand­ing exactly where the value lay, as I withdrew the links from the case and handed them to Glory. "Here. Would you keep these for me?" I said. "Till I need them?"

Her eyes met mine as her fist closed upon the jewelry, and she smiled. I shut the case and moved as if to replace it among the socks. I palmed it as I did so, and after I closed the drawer I slipped it into the side pocket of my jacket.

"Let's go finish our drinks," I said.

After Jerry left, Glory came across the room and into my arms.

"Thanks for the show of faith," she said. "You make it hard to doubt you."

I held her with my right arm, as I let my left hang to the side to cover the box in my pocket against her quick frisking movements. After all, I could have picked up something else in the bathroom.

"I told you that's how it would be," I said.

"What are their significance?" she asked.

"I have no idea. I've never seen them before. Didn't know they were there. You must have ways of testing objects for unusual properties."

She nodded. "Of course. And what of this Paul Jensen?"

"A great-uncle, well-heeled, somewhat eccentric. Al­ways kindly disposed toward me. Haven't seen him in years, though. It may take a while to run him down and learn his interest in this."

"Then let's go test the links," she said.

Double-wish, and we were in the foyer, facing the living room where one sofa was totally dominated by a crustaceous-looking individual five or six feet in length who, in the claw at the end of one of its many articulated limbs, held a great mug of what looked to be swamp water. Membranous wings of indeterminate outline were draped over the cushions at its back, and its head was covered with a forest of short antennae. The head, which was apple -green, darkened on our appearance. A dull metal, tube-like canister stood upon the floor before it. The side facing me bore a grid, and what appeared to be a small control panel. Its uppermost end was covered by some clear material, and when I moved nearer later I detected within its shadowy recesses contours strongly suggesting those of a human brain.

Adam Maser Macavity, the Kaleideion, stood before it, left foot on an ottoman, left elbow on left knee, left hand supporting his chin. He had on a black suit and a white shirt opened at the neck, and he held a drink in his right hand. He was leaning forward listening to the buzzing noises the creature made. These sounds ceased immediately on its regarding us.

"Why, hello," Adam stated, smiling, and lowering his left hand. "Allow me to introduce Gomi, the most interest­ing messenger I've ever encountered." Then, "Gomi, these are my associates, Alf and Medusa. We're all in this to­gether."

Gomi nodded his antennae. "It is good to meet the lady who makes men stiff," he said buzzingly, "and the man who is a sacred river."

Adam raised his eyebrows. "Sacred river?" he said.

"'In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure dome decree,'" Gomi buzzed, giving me a beat in which to come in and finish, "'Where Alf the sacred river ran through cav­erns measureless to man.'"

Adam groaned, while I grinned at Gomi. Glory just stared and said, "That is awful."

Gomi's buzzings followed the rhythms of laughter and he raised his brackish-looking drink, sipping off some of the small mushrooms that floated on its surface. Noting Glory's gaze, "Tastes worse," he said. "But you wouldn't want to be in the same room as an alien with turista."

"Thought you guys always did it on the wing," Adam said.

"If we're not careful," Gomi agreed.

"That's bad," Glory stated.

"Not as bad as upchucking in null-grav," Gomi responded, "especially if you've been eating pizza. Grab a seat. Grab anybody's seat."

Glory and I lowered ourselves to nearby cushions.

"Gomi and I met over a million years ago," Adam told us. "Gomi's a messenger, as I said—for off-planet intelli­gences."

"Freelance courier, actually," the creature corrected. "The message doesn't fly unless there's something in it for me."

"What constitutes the message?" Glory asked.

Gomi tapped the canister with one of his claws. "The medium, of course. I'm really good at paring things down to bare essentials."

Glory moved nearer and peered into the container.

"Oh," she said.

"Yes, I screw my brains out and then I've got it—intelli­gence in a tube. As in, 'What's in the can, man?'"

"What then?"

"In my case, it goes to the highest bidder. There're lots Of XTs who'd love to explore and discover and meet interesting new people and interrogate them. Haven't the time or the resources to manage it personally, though. So they have standing orders with those of my sort. One may just have an interest in the arts, or philosophy, or the sciences, or theology. Another may only be into the evolution of sea creatures. Another may just want to follow the develop­ment of a particular concept among quadrupeds. Someone else may be into cold-blooded thought, or the brains of those living in binary systems. These wish-lists are all posted along the ways. We may consult them after coming across something interesting, or we may go shopping after we learn of someone's special needs."

'"Ways'?" Glory asked. "What ways?"

"Gomi's is one of the few natural space-faring races," Adam said. "They come equipped with the ability to negoti­ate the undersides of spacetime as we normally perceive it, making their ways from world to world entirely under their own power. They spread their wings like the sails on ancient sea vessels and let the symmetry pressures of the ways pro­pel them."

"They may be the universe's stretch-marks," Gomi said, "or a demonstration that at certain levels space can be eroded, or the game trails of underside beasts whose spoor writes its own rules where they pass—for sometimes we encounter unusual roadkill and hear strange barks and lows across the parsecs. My people are not great theo­reticians in this area, since we already have all we need of it."

"Clear sailing and a fair wind to Arcturus," Adam said.

"Yo ho ho," Gomi added.

"Life on the dancing waves."

"Brainwaves."

"Yes, about that," Glory put in. "Why just the brains?"

"The parties interested in the development of intel­lect under various conditions are interested mainly in just that—intellect," Gomi replied.

"So you just leave the bodies and take them the brains?" I said.

"Well, I get the best deals I can for the bodies whenever there's an opportunity. But yes, mass is extremely impor­tant on trips of that sort, and my kind does seem to have a knack for ultra-highspeed neurosurgery."

It clicked its claws once and took another drink. "We've gotten it down to a real art. Pretty much have to, for getting ahead in the world."

"What's special about that one?" I asked, nodding toward the canister.

"It contains the first complete map of the human collec­tive unconscious," Gomi replied. "Lucky find. Worth a great deal. I was going to run it off to old Yog, who has a strong interest in stuff like that, when I ran into Macavity here. He made me an offer I couldn't refuse. Do you know I've been to the depths, I've been to the heights, I've collected brains on worlds all over the place, and there's half a universe I'd never seen?"

"No," Adam said, "but if you'll hum a few bars I'll try to fake it."

Gomi immediately broke into a raucous, chirping laughter; then, letting up, issued a high, piercing humming that hurt my ears. I almost thought at that time that I also detected a fast UHF exchange between Glory and Adam, using it for cover.

Glory hissed a simple tune then and I tried "I've been to the depths" in my deepest voice. Adam issued a long series of screeches and yowls. A strange sound even emerged from the canister.

Finally, I said, "So what did he give you for the thing?"

"Can't you guess?" Gomi replied. "A sense of humor. I'm the only one of my kind ever to have one, and it's great—seeing the wacky side of life and the ironies. No more being mocked as 'one of those humorless flying clods' by the other races I encounter. I've got some zingers now will knock them over. In fact—I have this ambition of being a standup, fly-by-night comedian. Make the circuit of the worlds, do my shticks. A funny thing happened to me on my way through subspace. Ran into one of my relatives and our parcels got switched while we were talking. Hope his customer likes hot fungi sandwiches from the old country. His canister had a rare twenty-second-century synthoid bookkeeping brain, a thing I didn't even realize till a lot later. Maybe the hot mustard masked it. There's just no accounting for it. C'mon! Give me a break! You an audience or an oil painting? Maybe you'd like I should do some pro bono brain switching? Hey, professor, let's have a little hard claw music!"

It rose, humming, and executed an eight-legged tap-dance about the foyer. I applauded lightly, hoping the crea­ture would stop soon, as some of the more delicate pieces of furniture looked threatened. The others joined my clapping. Gomi took this as a call for an encore, however, and accom­panying himself with an even higher-pitched humming, did a faster number about the room, disagreeing only with an end-table and a rocker.

"Fine stage presence and timing," Adam said, "consider­ing he only got his sense of humor a few minutes before you came in."

"Indeed," I said.

"Of course," Glory added.

At that, Gomi bowed and was seated again. "... And a replacement brain of perhaps equal value," it said. "You work out those coordinates yet, Macavity?"

Adam passed over a piece of paper covered with nota­tions. "Yes. Can you read them all right?"

Half of the antennae flicked toward the paper. "Clear enough. Clear enough. I get there, exactamente, for a very special brain. Thanks. Hope you enjoy yours."

It finished its drink, rose to its numerous appendages, unfurled its wings, and was gone, leaving behind the canis­ter it had brought.

"'Not snow, no, nor rain, nor heat, nor night keeps them from accomplishing their appointed rounds/" said Adam, rising to his feet and saluting. Then he stretched.

"No, but I'm sure this one breaks for graffiti, breaks for heads and breaks them—and when it learns that it'll get a laugh in certain quarters it'll doubtless learn to break wind."

"You had that one ready," he said, "which means that you anticipated mine. That's scary."

"I don't admit to anything," I said, "but I wouldn't mind catching that act once he's got it polished."

Glory gave me a strange look and refrained from hissing.

"And speaking of polish," I continued, remembering the cuff links, "we've picked up a little something . . ."

But before I could finish, the front door burst open and a familiar voice yelled, "And she was going to shoot me too. Then I was here, thank God!"

That's what I got for not being quick enough to flick the Switch.

She was Morgan Barry, actress, and I'd been a fan ever since I'd done a full takeout on her when I was writing features for Onstage magazine. She came tearing into the reception room like a blond Valkyrie shouting, "Which one is the god­damn soul-changer?"

I'd spent three weeks with her, putting the story of her strange career together. She was sweet, warm, appealing to the public, cooperative and hardworking with her col­leagues. She had everything going for her except the one kink that was crippling her progress. She was a jinx.

Mama Baumberg was devoted to romantic literature and had named her Morgan after Morgan le Fay, the fairy sister of King Arthur, because she wanted her daughter to enchant and captivate the whole world. Better Mama should have named her after Mordred, the bad-news knight who ruined the Round Table.

So Morgan Baumberg became Morgan Barry, actress, and wherever she went back luck was sure to follow: props failed, sets collapsed, lights exploded, cameras jammed. The entertainment business is particularly vulnerable to super­stitions—never whistle in a dressing room, never throw a hat on a bed, never wish a performer good luck—so of course everybody was afraid to work with this charming hoodoo.

Not so charming now. She glared at me. "You!"

"Yes. May I introduce Adam Maser, the goddamn soul-changer?"

"My God, you're red!"

"And his assistant, Glory."

"This is Morgan Barry, a magnificent actress, also known as Voodoo Barry."

"Did you have to print that, damn you? Is that why you stopped seeing me?"

"Morgie, I still love you, but the piece was finished."

She described me with a four-letter word, then turned the Valkyrie on Adam. "I want my luck changed." But there was no resisting his warm smile and she returned it. "Please, kind sir?"

"Now what's all this brouhaha, Ms. Barry? You're obvi­ously dressed for dinner . . . beautifully. Where? What hap­pened? Why'd you wish here?"

"Cafe En Coeur, just across from the UN. I was there with Mal Mawson, one of my producers, and a potential backer. Mal brought me along to help coax the guy into putting up front money for a new series, 'Country Western,' about two Nashville singers who solve mysteries."

I said, "Oy."

"I'm going to be Wendy Western, who sings—no dub­bing—and does all the shooting with a six-gun," the Valkyrie informed me. "Any compliments beyond 'Oy'?"

"And this is the shooting you were shouting about when you entered, Ms. Barry?" Adam asked.

"No. We were having drinks before dinner, laughing it up, softening him up, when damn if the backer's wife didn't appear out of nowhere and shoot him, and I got the hell out of there to here."

"Why?" I asked.

"Why?! I was probably next."

"I mean why'd she shoot him and maybe you?"

"From what she was screeching, she thought we were having an affair."

Adam and Glory had their eyes fixed on Morgan as though they were looking right through her. There was a long silence. At last Morgan snapped, "Well?"

"Wait, "I said.

"For what?"

"They're talking."

"Talking! They aren't even moving their—"

"They're talking UHF. Ultra High Frequency."

"Not to me, they aren't. They—"

Adam broke in. "Sorry, Ms. Barry. We have been talking. UHF, as Alf said, but not to you. We've been talking to your brother."

"Brother? What brother? I haven't got any brother."

"This will come as a shock to you, but you do have a brother and he's here."

"Here? Where? There's only the four of us."

"Inside you."

"What? Brother? Inside? Me?" Morgan shook her head incredulously. "You're crazy."

"Please sit down and listen. Yours is a fascinating prob­lem which my assistant has already solved. There will be no more bad luck."

Morgan sank down, dumbfounded. I wasn't exactly on top of it myself.

"Do be patient," Adam continued. "When your mother conceived, fraternal twins developed, brother and sister. But during the gestation, the sister embryo overgrew the brother embryo, engulfed him and incorporated him in yourself as a fraternal cyst. This is unusual but not unique. There have been many such cases."

"I... I did a dreadful thing like that?" Morgan stam­mered.

"Not consciously. Not deliberately," Glory assured her. "How could you? It was pure accident."

"I f-feel like a cannibal."

"Nonsense," Adam laughed. "Your brother's alive, and that's unique. He's an enclosed, living cyst, and he's lonely and irascible because he's isolated: no friends, no one to talk to."

"Wh-why has he never talked to me?"

"He can receive full frequency but can only transmit UHF, which infuriates him. And what's been worse for you, he's a warlock, a witch-cyst."

Adam paused long enough to allow it to sink in.

"Your brother's been your jinx. The most trivial things can sting him into casting malevolent spells. Your guest's cocktail conversation annoyed him so he put a stop to it via the jealous wife. He conjured that false conviction into her mind."

"How has Glory solved the problem?" I asked.

"She's promised him a friend. He won't be lonely and angry any more."

"Someone that hears and speaks UHF?"

"And your speech, too. A charming lady friend. It all depends on Ms. Barry."

"Wh-what depends on m-me?"

Macavity became his most beguiling, which was as overwhelming as his persona power. Or maybe it was the same thing. "How would you like to headline yourself with an unusual pet to be with you at all times: bright, friendly, captivating, an attention-getter?"

"Like Cheetah, Tarzan's chimp?" But I was ignored.

Morgan could only look at Adam with wide eyes. "I— I haven't the foggiest what you're talking about," she fal­tered.

"Bok Pang, one of the Panda crowd," Glory said. "Dammy's bringing her over for your brother—should ar­rive in a few days—and he swears that from now on he'll magic nothing but good luck for you."

"Go back to the Cafe En Coeur," Adam said. "The guest's alive. Your brother made his wife a lousy shot; didn't want you killed, too. The backer's so delighted to be the center of attention that he's putting up the front money."

Morgan shook her head. "It's all taken care of? The bad luck?"

"All. Wendy Western and Panda Bok are going to win Emmy awards."

"I can't believe it."

"Your brother's promise. Wish back and find out."

"I— What do I have to pay? I—"

"Forget it, Morgie," I broke in. "That piece I did on you for OnStage got me a fat contract with Rigadoon. I owe you. I'll take care of it."

She burst into tears, tried to kiss us all at the same time, and headed for the front door supported by Glory.

"I don't have to wish you luck," Adam said. "You've got it already."

Once we heard the door shut, Adam's hand moved past me

to pick up the Klein Ruffino bottle.

"This thing, Alf," he said. "What's the scoop?"

"I gave a full bottle to an old bum named Urtch who'd turned up in an entranceway after the Switch was thrown."

"'Urtch'? As in 'Demiurtch'?"

"He just said 'Urtch.'"

Adam growled softly.

"And he did this to the bottle afterwards?"

"I didn't see him do it, but that's how I found it later."

"And he stayed out there while the Switch was on?"

"Insisted."

"What became of him?"

"He just sort of disappeared before I looked again."

"He do or say anything else interesting?"

"Tossed his first empty into the fog to show me a photon smear. When I told him I thought I saw something moving out there he said it was the Ouroboros Serpent."

"Hm. That tells me something about timing."

"Of what?"

"Oh, it's just a private superstition I— Gods! I've got it myself! The fresh superstition! I have an ingredient to donate! Excuse me." He picked up the brain canister and ran off toward the Hellhole. "Every little bit helps," he said.

I went to the kitchen and made hot chocolate. Later, while we were drinking it, Adam emerged, wiping his hands on his trousers, and threw himself down upon a sofa.

I poured a cup and took it to him.

"Challenging chocolate," he said tasting it. "The new ingredients add amazing dimensions."

"Are we drinking the same chocolate?" I asked, raising mine to sip again.

"Iddroid ingredients, Blackie. Just ran three simulations with what we've got and had a different result each time. It's definitely nonlinear now. The uncertainty of life will be in it. The inconnu!"

Glory came up on his other side and You-Hiffed at him. He held out his hand. She deposited my cuff links in it. He scrutinized them, weighing them with his hand.

He reached up, unzipped the air in front of him, reached inside the slit and drew forward a unit about the size of a can opener. It hung suspended before him.

"Parlor work station," Glory explained.

He attached a pair of wires from the unit and pressed a design on its front. Then he raised his eyes to read some­thing it displayed.

"Beta Cygnus," he announced. "Earth design, metallic compound from Beta Cygnus," and he detached the leads, pushed everything back out of sight, and zipped space shut once more. Again, he bounced the links in his hand. Then, "Otherwise innocuous," he added. "No concealed transmit­ter, no hidden explosive. Nada."

He handed them to me.

"You knew something was hidden in your apartment, but you did not know what," he said.

"That's right."

"Nan tells me you're aware of your identity with the clones."

"Correct."

"Then it would seem the cuff links are more in the nature of a reminder to you or a caution to me that some­thing is in the offing—rather than any threat in themselves. Did their discovery set off any special chain of reminiscences or compulsions?"

"No," I said, truthfully, thinking of myself in the mir­ror—and happy that that was before the links discovery.

"Then I suggest you be alert for such at any time, and let me know if they do occur."

"All right." Whenever . . .

"Dammy, you still owe Alf, you know," Glory said. After all that had happened, I was surprised—and pleased—she still thought Macavity should keep his promises.

"I know. But I've already offered him a partnership."

"I mean the recall."

"The total? Of course! Idiot, I am. In time all will be made copacetic. Copacetic? Yes?"

"Not after 1940."

"Thanks again. I've decided against the total recall of that one-man band. Too limited in capacity. It'll be Marcel Proust instead."

"You've got him?"

"I've got the whole Green Carnation, Yellow Book, fin de siecle crowd. They used to come to me, pawning, buying exchanging for new kicks."

But Adam was interrupted by yet another invasion, a sort of Lord Byron, the poet, who declaimed, "The ITs shall inherit the earth!"

I stared. He was a tall, almost pretty-looking fellow who wore a navy blue cloak over gray trousers and jacket, a heavily ruffled shirt, and a red waistcoat. He had on black gaitered boots, and his hair was long and wavy. His eyes were pale, his smile bright, his voice amazing.

Macavity bowed lightly and observed, "Which would have you leading the way, Mr. Ash. Alf, I'd like to introduce Ashton Ash, lead vocalist for the IT, the most popular singing group of a generation."

Since it was not a generation with which I was familiar I could only smile, nod, and acknowledge, "Of course. The IT. Happy to know you, Mr. Ash."

"I find it hard to guess what you might possibly want," Macavity stated, slipping into the persona mode, tuned to make him seem larger, more forceful, spreading his pres­ence throughout the room, dominating. "You're rich, tal­ented, attractive—"

Ash eyed me and Glory almost wistfully. Finally, licking his lips, "Sex," he responded.

Macavity chuckled. "Some exotic enhancement?" he asked.

"No. Just the plain old-fashioned kind."

"Surely you're joking. You must have it thrust upon you constantly. I don't understand—"

"Of course. But I can't take advantage of it."

"Ah! Impotence. You don't need my services. There are many forms of medical treatment available."

Ash shook his head. Then he stood straighter, opened his mouth, and began to sing. It was Astrafeeamonte's wild, amazing aria from The Magic Flute. We listened, spellbound, to the entire thing. When he was finished we applauded.

"Amazing coloratura," Macavity said, just as Ash shifted to baritone for a barbershop number.

Afterwards, we simply stared. It was too much, that voice, with its extraordinary range, fluency, and shades of feeling. I'd never heard another like it.

"I don't understand," Macavity said. "Surely, you don't wish to trade a voice like that."

Ash looked at each of us in turn. Then, "We are all adults here," he announced, and he fumbled at his trousers and braces and dropped his pants.

I watched, fascinated, as did the others. He seemed well-enough hung to have no complaints, and I did not really understand the display until he seated himself, legs open.

"Aha!" Macavity said. "You're a true hermaphrodite! Remarkable! Do you know how rare that is?"

Ash smiled.

"It's rather common in the company I keep," he re­plied. "All of the IT are true hermaphrodites. It's the ac­companying hormone mix that gives us our unique vocal abilities."

"Of course," Macavity said. "You are doubly—nay, triply—blessed."

"Cursed, rather," Ash responded.

"How so?"

"The few times I revealed all of my equipment I fright­ened away potential partners. It made me self-conscious, neurotic about the whole business. In fact, I've never really gotten any in my whole life—"

"Sacre bleu!"

"Gotterdamerung!"

"Pobrecito!"

He nodded sadly.

"—which is why I'm here," he finished. And I heard Macavity mutter, "An inconnu absolu! Ingredient!"

Then. "Tell me your desire—besides the simple and basic—and you will be accommodated," he said.

"I want to trade one set of them—either one, I guess— so I can be like everyone else. Well, half of everyone else, anyway."

"You realize what it will do to your voice?"

"Yes, but I don't care. I've made my bundle, I'm ready to retire and enjoy life. Give some new IT a chance."

"All right. But I must have the entire ensemble. I'll provide you with a new set of solo equipment—of your choice—out of stock. Of equal or superior quality, I hasten to add."

Ash beamed.

"It's a deal." He rose, adjusted his apparel, and, with a nod to Glory and me, allowed the cat-man to lead him off into the Hellhole.

It wasn't long before Adam appeared.

"The job's done," he said, "but he'll need to sleep it off." He paused a moment and glanced at Glory, who turned and headed for the kitchen.

"Now then," he continued. "I've been picking up Cagliostro's ingredients left and right, and there are just a few more tricky ones to go after. How's about you and Nan checking out another one for me?"

"Sure," I said. "Who, what, when, where, why, and how?"

"I already filled Nan in in the ultrahigh way; basically, I want you to jump back to the sixteenth century and see whether a sweet little old lady is indeed a specialized precog, as my research indicates she might be. If she is, see if there's anything she'd trade for it."

"Check," I said, "and a question."

"What?"

"I've been wondering why you were so taken by Cagliostro's scheme in the first place."

"Because it's there," he said. "All along, I knew that would turn up at what would prove to be a key moment. Your showing up at about the same time did a lot to rein­force the feeling."

I shrugged.

"And if I'm not whatever you think and if the Iddroid project fails . . . ?"

He grinned. "Then one day something else of equal interest will come along, and I will follow. Wherever my heart leads me, baby, I must go."

Glory came up, a small plastic sack in one hand. She asked him if he wanted a refill on the chocolate. "No," he said, "I've got to go now."

She shook her head. "I'm pulling rank," she told him. "We go now. You throw the Switch. While Ash is gone, take a nap. You're going to need the rest."

"Must I?"

"Yes. I want you in top shape, whatever happens."

He made a face. Then, "All right. I don't need it. But just for you," he said. He yawned, stretched with leonine grace, and rose to his feet. He followed us across the foyer to the niche.

As we wished out, he was reaching for the Switch. A moment later, Glory, sack in one hand, and I found our­selves on a muddy trail, a few bedraggled-looking trees about us, rain falling steadily.

"Bad timing," I growled.

She caught hold of my arm. "Can't call them all. That little cottage up ahead should be the place, though," she said. "Come on. By the way, we're in Knaresborough, in Yorkshire, and the year is 1521."

"And who's the woman?"

"Mother Shipton," she said. "Not too much is known about her, but—"

"Mother Shipton," I said, "the British prophetess—sure. She's supposed to have predicted the Great Fire of 1666 and a bunch of other events. The only catch is that like most such stuff these things are really impossible to document."

"Well, let's hope we can find out."

I studied the cottage. All of its shutters were secured, and a ribbon of smoke came up out of the chimney. Glory went directly to the front door and pounded on it.

"Hello?" she called. "Hello? Would you let two travelers in out of the rain?"

"Why the bloody hell should I?" came a woman's voice from within.

"Because it's the decent thing to do," I suggested. "But mainly, if you've had a vision of an important visit this time of year, this is it."

There came a rattling sound from the other side of the door, and moments later it was flung open. We stumbled inside and Glory pushed the door shut behind us as a squat, straggly-haired woman of middle height uttered a roar and sprang toward me. Her left hand struck at my face and her right made a grab for my groin. I retreated, parrying and blocking, so that my back came up against the door. She tried again and this time I caught her wrists and pushed her out to arms' distance and held her there.

"Will you accept an apology?" I asked. "Or should we just go?"

Her face took on a blank expression and her lips trem­bled. ''Deliver us, O Lord, from the peril of the sword," she recited, "and the boxed ones from the power of the cat." Then she shook her head, backed up, and smiled. "Won't you have yourselves a seat?" she said, glancing upward to where water dripped from the rafters. "If you can find a dry one."

"'Scrying by aggression,'" Glory said, drawing up a bench that would hold both of us and positioning it be­tween puddles. "That's why she never made the really big time."

"And you had to test it out on me."

"Of course. I already knew you could defend yourself." Glory passed the bag she'd brought to the woman who stood before us. Mother Shipton was wrapped in countless layers of nondescript dark garments. "I've brought some tea and biscuits," Glory said. "If you'd set some water to boiling we can have a hot drink and a bite to eat."

"Tea?" the woman said. "Excuse me, m'lady. I did not know—but no. You came with him out of the places I see darkly. It is all very confusing."

She turned away, filled a kettle from a pitcher, and hung it above the flames.

"Damned dry future of yours," she said. "I can see it so comfortable. Your roof doesn't leak."

"No," Glory said. "You're right." She reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew a silver flask. "Nip of brandy?" she suggested, unscrewing the cap, extending the container. "To warm us while we wait for the tea?"

The woman's eyes shone as she accepted and tossed back a healthy slug. "What brings you here?" she asked, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and returning the flask.

"Wait," I said. "Before you two talk business I want to know the meaning of that bit of verse, right after you went for me."

She shook her head. "If they rhymes I don't always fol­low 'em," she said. "But I see you in the sky a hunter."

"What does that mean?"

"You must think the piece over carefully."

"How did you ever discover you possessed such an odd ability?" I asked.

"My husband was a schoolmaster," she said. "A decent man much of the week, he taught me my letters and num­bers and many Latin tags. Come Saturday, though, he'd stop at the public house. Got the devil in him when he drank. Comin' home then, if he avoided trouble with his fellows, he would beat me. After a time, I noticed that he almost always came at me the same way. So the next time he did it I was ready. I stepped up close and gave him five good ones below the belt and a pair on the head. He was ready to stop then, right where he fell, and I was filled with visions of things to come. Some of them were his and mine, others showing wars, shipwrecks, fires. I wrote them all down. The next week I swung at him before he swung at me, and I got more. Soon I took to waylaying him on the way home, both to keep from messin' the place we lived in and because it often gave me a second chance at him later. See, I'd started writin' these pamphlets of predictions and they did pretty well. Made enough to buy this place, which was quite a step up in the world."

I looked around at the single room, with its counter, fireplace, well-worn bed, its few sticks of furniture, its leaks. I nodded.

"Oh, I could see ahead to how much better people will have it another day," she went on. "But at least I could aim for improvement. I took at last to waitin' outside the pub of a Saturday night and followin' certain departin' drinkers a ways—later givin' rise to stories of a temperance ghost. I beat on any of the ones who'd too much to drink, as they wouldn't remember well come next mornin'. I saw more and more that way, put out my pamphlets more regular, was able to fix this place up over what it was to begin with—like gettin' a floor."

"What about your husband?" I asked.

"Oh, he was none too happy with his aches and bruises," she said, "but at first he liked what I was doin' for our purse and the house. It sort of evened out."

"In my day, they call you Mother Shipton."

She nodded.

"Two sets of twins," she said. "When I was fourteen and again at sixteen. The girls married well. My Rob is a farrier, and my Jamie a cabinetmaker. They both have them good wives. Makes one mighty dry, talkin' like this."

Glory passed her the flask and she took a long swig.

"I don't see anything like a man's gear or clothing around here," I said.

She nodded. "My Dickon up and run off one Saturday night. Guess he just didn't have the stomach for more propheseyin'. They found him floatin' in the river next day. I'd seen it comin' but he never paid my warnings no heed. 'Could've married lots of times after that. As I said, I was gettin' on well-off. But I'd bring my suitors home and pound on 'em a bit. The first few larrups always tells me somethin' about the person, the others bring other visions."

"As when you said what you said about the sword and the cat?"

"Yes. Knew you for a hunter right away. Lots of dan­ger."

"Such as?"

"That's the trouble with prophecies. You never get it all." She glanced at the kettle, which was just beginning to make noises. "I could see none of my swains would ever amount to much, so they never got much farther than being beaten. There was one or two as actually took a likin' to it, though, and they started comin' around for more . . . long as I was a little more careful." She smiled. "We actually had a couple of good things goin' for some time till they got too laid up. Men are strange."

"Because they are of the same race as women," I said.

She stared at me. Then she slapped my knee and laughed.

"You know whereof you speak, hunter," she said, ac­cepting a biscuit from the box Glory had opened. "Mm! These are good!"

I got up and made the tea while she ate several more. I reached over and snagged one myself. In an odd way, it was almost cheery, being in a cold, leaky cottage with a company-starved woman with certain anti-social tendencies, search­ing out and cleaning three cups amid the litter. I found sugar, creamer, and a lemon in Glory's bag with the tea, and prepped to satisfy every taste.

While I was about this, Glory began the pitch. "If you could trade that ability for something you might find more substantial in life, would you do it?" she asked.

Mother Shipton sighed, reaching for the cup I passed her. "Many's the time I wished I'd not had the Sight," she said. "For I often saw griefs none could forfend against." She took a sip of tea. "Yet, 'tis the source of my income, and as you can see I live well—for the times. And it's been educa­tional as well. I've learned of engineering by building flaws, of military strategies by bad example. I can speak and behave well an' I wish, as I've studied court politics and matters of the heart among the mighty. I've seen the affairs of the Church, the state, the individual, and profited there­from. Not to mention having developed considerable skills of the combat sort along the way. No, 'tis somethin' of a curse but it's also been good to me. I'd not be lettin' go of it too easily."

She took two more biscuits and a big drink of tea.

"So what you're saying," Glory continued, "is that if you sold your talent the price would have to include some­thing to keep you living in the manner to which you've become accustomed."

"I'm thinkin' it would have to be somewhat better than that. I still have my hopes and the ability maybe to realize 'em. Yes, I would want some small fortune." She looked down at herself, raised a patched outer garment, and let it fall. She ran one hand through her hair and shook her head.

I realized then that beneath the grime her hair was probably blond, with no gray in it. She had striking blue eyes and the high cheekbones of a fashion model. It struck me that she was still possibly in her early thirties, and I wondered what her figure was like under all the wrappings. "I think I'd also like to be good-looking and have some nice clothes," she said, "and have a chance to meet some halfway-decent men."

Glory nodded. "Something might be worked out," she said. "Would you be willing to come with us and talk to the boss? He's in charge of things like that. Don't get the wrong impression. It's not a pact with the Devil. It's all a matter of the natural sciences—and money, of course."

Mother Shipton laughed. "I don't believe in pacts with demons, lass," she said. "I've seen too much about how evil really comes to be. Of course I'll talk with the man and see what he can do for me. If I've somethin' he wants, why that's just good sense."

"'Hunter,'" I said then, nibbling a biscuit.

"Yes, one of the great ones."

"Tell me," Glory said almost casually, "do you get any foreign words along with your visions?"

"Why yes, when they involve foreign matters."

Glory nodded toward me. "Is 'hunter' your translation of something else then, from the feeling?"

"Oh, you're sharp, lass," she said, refilling her cup and quickly mastering the use of a teabag. "There was some for­eign tag—somethin' like 'custodian' but it meant 'hunter.'"

"And 'Graylon'?"

"That, too. That, too. Goes with t'other."

Glory nodded and sipped her tea. Her fangs were ex­truded.

"Mind telling me what the hell you're talking about?" I asked.

"Alf, you're doubtless the most dangerous man on Earth—for centuries in either direction, at that—and you don't even know it."

"Well, how about enlightening me on the matter?"

"No, timing is almost everything in matters of this sort. And there's your timing and there's our timing. And neither has run its course. So we wait and you stew. Just remember that we could have done you harm before now, but we didn't."

I nodded.

"I guess that's the best deal I get."

"The only deal," she said.

"My, this sounds intriguin'," said Mother Shipton; and, fair being fair, I got an idea just then. "And it's just oc­curred to me," she went on, "that if we spilled a few drops of that brandy into the tea it might be ever so much more excitin'."

Mentally, I tried to recall myself in the mirror for advice. My image appeared in my mind, staring back at me. "Drop your teacup," it said.

I did. Mother Shipton shrieked and her eyes grew moist. Glory said, "Alf, how could you? Little things like that are so dear back here."

"I'm sorry. It just slipped."

Glory stood. "I'll be right back," she said, "with a replacement."

"'Tis not necess—"

Glory was gone. Less than half a minute later she reap­peared with a party streamer in her hair and a mug from the Black Place's kitchen in her hand. She passed it to me and I poured myself a refill. "You can drop it all you want," she said.

"It's virtually indestructible."

I nodded and we both thanked her. While she was away I'd had time to give Mother Shipton an instruction.

We drank our tea and ate our biscuits. The rain rained and leaked in. Wet thoughts in a gone world.