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                                  Callahan's
                                   Crosstime
                                    Saloon







                                      By
                                Spider Robinson
                                     ⌐1977






















                               Spider Robinson:
                           The SF Writer As Empath

                                  By Ben Bova




  When Analog magazine was housed over at Graybar Building on Lexington Avenue,
our offices were far from plush. In fact, they were grimy. Years worth of
Manhattan soot clung to the walls. The windows were opaque with grime. (What has
this to do with Spider Robinson? Patience, friend.)
  Many times young science fiction fans would come to Manhattan and phone me
from Grand Central Station, which connected underground with the good old
Graybar. "I've just come to New York and I read every issue of Analog and I'd
like to come up and see what a science fiction magazine office looks like," they
would invariably say.
  I'd tell them to come on up, but not to expect too much. My advice was always
ignored. The poor kid would come in and gape at the piles of manuscripts, the
battered old metal desks, and mountains of magazines and stacks of artwork, the
ramshackle filing cabinets and bookshelves. His eyes would fill with tears. His
mouth would sag open.
  He had, of course, expected whirring computers, telephones with TV
attachments, smoothly efficient robots humming away, ultramodern furniture, and
a general appearance reminiscent of a NASA clean room. (Our present offices, in
the spanking new Conde Nast Building on Madison Avenue, are a little closer to
that dream.)
  The kid would shamble away, heartsick, the beautiful rainbow-hued bobble of
his imagination burst by the sharp prick of reality.
  Still, despite the cramped quarters and the general dinginess, we managed to
put out an issue of Analog each month, and more readers bought it than any other
science fiction book, magazine, pamphlet, or cuniform tablet ever published.
  And then came Spider Robinson.
  Truth to tell, I don't remember if he sent in a manuscript through the mail
first, or telephoned for an appointment to visit the office. No matter. And now
he's off in Nova Scotia, living among the stunted trees and frost heaves, where
nobody-not even short-memoried editors-can reach him easily.
  Anyway, in comes Spider. I look up from my desk and see this lank, almost-
cadaverous young man, bearded, long of hair, slightly owlish behind his
eyeglasses, sort of grinning quizzically, as if he didn't know what to expect.
Neither did I.
  But I .thought, At least he won't be put off by the interiordecor.
  You have to understand that those same kids who expected Analog's office to
look like an out-take from 2001: A Space Odyssey also had a firm idea of what an
Analog writer should look like: a tall, broadshouldered, jutjawed, steelyeyed
hero who can repair a starship's inertial drive with one hand, make friends with
the fourteen-legged green aliens of Arcturus, and bring the warring nations of
Earth together under a benignly scientific world government-all at the same
time, while wearing a metallic mesh jumpsuit and a cool smile.
  Never mind that no SF writer ever looked like that. Well, maybe Robert A.
Heinlein comes close, and he could certainly do all of those things if he'd just
stop writing for a while. But Asimov is a bit less than heroic in stature;
Silverberg shuns politics; Bradbury doesn't even drive a car, much less a
starship.
  Nevertheless, this was the popular conception of a typical Analog writer.
Spider Robinson was rather wider of that mark than most.
  He had a story with him, called "The Guy with the Eyes." There wasn't much
science fiction in it. But it was one helluva good story. About a crazy bunch of
guys who get together at a truly unique place called Callahan's.
  We went to lunch, and Spider began telling me how he worked nights guarding a
sewer 'way out on Long Island. Far from being a drop-out, he was writing stories
and songs, as well as sewer-sitting. He's a worker, and he knows science fiction
very well, a fact that surprised a lot of people when he started reviewing books
for Galaxy magazine. He's also a guitar-strummin' singer, and I found out how
good he is at many a party. But that was later.
  I bought "The Guy with the Eyes." When it came out in Analog, it caused a mild
ripple among our readers. I had expected some of them to complain because it
wasn't galaxy-spanning superheroic science fiction. Instead, they wrote to tell
me that they got a kick out of Callahan's Place. How about more of the same?
  Now, an editor spends most of his time reading lousy stories. John Campbell,
who ran Analog (nee Astounding) for some thirty-five years, often claimed to
hold the Guinness Book of Records championship for reading more rotten SF
stories than anyone else on Earth. (Most likely he could have expanded his claim
to take in the entire solar system, but John was a conservative man in some
ways.)
  So when you spend your days and nights-especially the nights-reading poor
stories, it's a pleasure to run across somebody like Spider: a new writer who
has a good story to tell. It makes all those lousy stories worthwhile. Almost.
  It's a thrill to get a good story out of the week's slushpile-that mountain of
manuscripts sent in by the unknowns, the hopefuls, the ones who want to be
writers but haven't written anything publishable yet.
  But the real thrill comes when a new writer sends in his second story and it's
even better than the first one. That happens most rarely of all. It happened
with Spider. He brought in the manuscript of "The Time Traveler," and I knew I
was dealing with a pro, not merely a one-time amateur.
  We talked over the story before he completed the writing of it. He warned me
that he couldn't really find a science fiction gimmick to put into the story. I
fretted over that (Analog is, after all, a science fiction magazine), but then I
realized that the protagonist was indeed a time traveller; his "time machine" ,
was a prison.
  Just about the time the story was published, thousands of similar time
travelers returned to the U.S. from North Vietnamese prisons. Spider's story
should have been required reading for all of them, and their families.
  Sure enough, we got a few grumbles from some of our older readers. One sent a
stiff note, saying that since the story wasn't science fiction atall, and he was
paying for science fiction stories, would we please cancel his subscription. I
wrote him back pointing out that we had published the best science fiction
stories in the world for more than forty years, and for one single story he's
cancelling his subscription? He never responded, and I presume that he's been
happy with Analog and Spider ever since.
  Callahan's Place grew to be an institution among Analog's readers, and you can
see it-and the zanies who frequent Callahan's-in all their glory in this
collection of stories. What you're reading is something truly unique, because
the man who wrote these stories is an unique writer. It's been my privilege to
publish most of these stories in Analog. Several others are brand new and
haven't been published anywhere else before.
  It's also been a privilege, and a helluva lot of fun, to get to know Spider
personally. To watch him develop as a writer and as a man.
  He went from guarding sewers to working for a Long Island newspaper. When that
job brought him to a crisis of conscience-work for the paper and slant the news
the way the publisher demanded, or get out-his conscience won. He took the big,
big step of depending on nothing but his writing talent for an income. But
Spider writes; he doesn't talk about writing, he works at it.
  It wasn't all that easy. He had personal problems, just like everybody else
does. Not every story he put on paper sold immediately. Money was always short.
  One summer afternoon he met a girlfriend who was coming into town from Nova
Scotia. She had never been to New York before. Spider greeted her at Penn
Station with the news that his lung had just collapsed and he had to get to a
hospital right away, he hoped she didn't mind. The young lady (her name is
Jeanne) not only got him to a hospital; she ended up marrying him. Now they both
live in Nova Scotia, where city-born Spider has found that he loves the rural
splendor of farm life. (Me, I stay in the wilds of Manhattan, where all you've
got to worry about is strikes, default, muggings and equipment failure. Nova
Scotia? In winter? Ugh!)
  Meanwhile, Spider's stories kept getting better. He branched out from
Callahan's. He turned a ludicrous incident on a Greyhound bus into a fine and
funny science fiction story. He wrote a novel with so many unlikely angles to it
that if I gave you the outline of it, it would probably drive you temporarily
insane. But he made it work. It's a damned good novel, with bite as well as
humanity in it. We'll publish a big slice of it in Analog, and it will come out
both in hardcover and paperback later on.
  And his stories were being noticed, appreciated, enjoyed by the science
fiction fans. At the World Science Fiction Convention in 1974 he received the
John Campbell Award as Best New Writer of the Year. At that time-he had only
published three or four stories, but they were not the kind that could be
overlooked.
  What does it all add up to? Here we have a young writer who looks, at first
glance, like the archetypical hippie dropout, winning respect and admiration in
a field that's supposed to admire nobody but the Heinleins and Asimovs.
  It just might be that Spider Robinson represents the newest and strongest
trend in science fiction today. He's a humanist, by damn. An empath. He's
sensitive to human emotions: pain, fear, joy, love. He can get them down on
paper as few writers can.  -
  The SF field began with gadgeteers and pseudoscience. It developed in the
Thirties and Forties with writers such as Heinlein and Asimov, who knew and
understood real science and engineering, and could write strong stories about
believable people who were scientists and engineers. In the Fifties and Sixties
we began to get voices such as Ted Sturgeon, Fred Pohl, Harlan Ellison-writers
who warned that not everything coming from the laboratory was Good, True and
Beautiful.
  Now here's Spider Robinson, writing stories that are-well, they're about
people. People in pain, people having fun, people with problems, people helping
each other to solve their problems. Spider is a guy who can feel other people's
emotions and help to deal with them. He's like a character out of an early
Sturgeon story-kind, down-to-earth; very empathic. Literarily, he is Sturgeon's
heir.
  That's the good news. He is also an inveterate punster. You'll see his puns
scattered all through the Callahan stories. In fact, there are whole evenings at
Callahan's devoted to punning contests. Nobody's perfect.
  I remember getting a newspaper clipping from Spider which showed a NASA
drawing of the design for a toilet to be used under zero gravity conditions in
the Skylab satellite. (NASA has problems that thee and me can't even guess at.)
The cutaway drawing of this engineering marvel showed that there was a rotating
blade inside the toilet bowl, to "separate the liquid from the solid wastes," as
NASA's engineers euphemistically put it.
  Spider, in his scrawly handwriting, had scribbled across the top of the
clipping a brief note, followed by an arrow that pointed unerringly to the bowl
and the separator blade. The note said, "Ben: Near as I can figure, the shit is
supposed to hit the fan!"
  As I said, nobody's perfect. But Spider comes pretty damned close. Read about
him and his friends at Callahan's Place. Enjoy.


                                            April, 1976
                                            New York City










                                   Foreword

                              by Spider Robinson




  Books get written for the damndest reasons. Some are written to pay off a
mortgage, some to save the world, some simply for lack of anything better to do.
One of my favorite anecdotes concerns a writer who bet a friend that it was
literally impossible to write a book so B*A*D that no one could be found to
publish it. As the story goes, this writer proceeded to write the worst, most
hackneyed novel of which he was capable-and not only did he succeed in selling
it, the public demanded better than two dozen sequels (I can't tell you his
name: his estate might sue, and I have no documentation. Ask around at any SF
convention; it's a reasonably famous anecdote).
  This book, as it happens, was begun for the single purpose of getting me out
of the sewer.
  I mean that literally. In 1971, after seven years in college, with that Magic
Piece of Paper clutched triumphantly in my fist, the best job I was able to get
was night watchman on a sewer project in Babylon, New York--guarding a hole in
the ground to prevent anyone from stealing it. God bless the American
educational system.
  What with one thing and another, I seemed to have a lot of time on my hands.
So I read a lot of science fiction, a custom I have practiced assiduously since,
at the age of five, I was introduced to Robert A. Heinlein's Rocket Ship
Galileo. One evening, halfway through a particularly wretched example of
Sturgeon's Law ("Ninety percent of science fiction-of anything-is crap"), I sat
up straight in my chair and said for perhaps the ten thousandth time in my life,
"By Jesus, I can write better than this turnip."
  And a lightbulb of about two hundred watts appeared in the air over my head.
  I had written a couple of stories already, acquiring just enough rejection
slips to impress friends with, and had actually had one printed in a now-defunct
fanzine called Xrymph. (Hilariously enough, one of the crazies who produced
Xrymph was the editor who bought this book that you hold in your hands: Jim
Frenkel.) But my entire output at that time could have been fit into a business
envelope, and its quality might be most charitably described as shitful. On the
other hand, I had never before had the motivation I now possessed: I Wanted Out
Of The Sewer.
  It was time to become a Pro.
  I realized from previous failures that as a tyro, it behooved me to select a
subject I knew thoroughly, as I was not yet skillful enough to bluff
convincingly. Accordingly, I selected drink. Within a week I had completed the
first chapter of this book, "The Guy With The Eyes."
  Looking in a library copy of Writer's Guide, I discovered that there were four
markets for my masterpiece. I noted that Ben Bova paid five cents a-word and
everyone else paid under three, and that's how my lifelong friendship with Ben
was begun. I mailed it and he bought it, and when I had recovered from the shock
of his letter of acceptance, I gathered my nerve and rang him up to timidly ask
if editors ever condescended to waste a few minutes answering the naive
questions of beginning writers. Ben pointed out that without writers, editors
couldn't exist, and invited me to lunch. And when I walked into the Analog
office (stumbling over the occasional Hugo), very nearly the first thing he said
was, "Say, does that Callahan's Place really exist? I'd love to go there."
  Since that day I estimate I have been asked that question about 5,372 X 10'░
times, by virtually every fan I meet. One gentleman wrote to me complaining
bitterly because I had said in "The Guy With The Eyes" that Callahan's was in
Suffolk County, Long Island, and he wanted me to know that he had by God spent
six months combing every single bar on Long Island without finding the Place.
  I seem to have struck a chord.
  Well I'm sorry, but I'll have to tell you the same thing I told those 5,372 X
10'░ other people: as far as I know, Callahan's Place exists only between a) my
ears, b) assorted Analog and Vertex covers, and of course c) the covers of this
book. If there is in fact a Callahan's Place out there in the so-called real
world, and you know where it is, I sincerely hope you'll tell me.
  'Cause I'd really like to hang out there awhile.

                                                  February, 1976
                                                  Phinney's Cove, Nova Scotia






                       "There is nothing which has been
                        contrived by man by which so
                        much happiness has been produced
                        as by a good tavern or inn."

                                                   -Samuel Johnson








                                      1

                            THE GUY WITH THE EYES

  Callahan's Place was pretty lively that night. Talk fought Budweiser for mouth
space all over the joint, and the beer nuts supply was critical. But this guy
managed to keep himself in a corner without being noticed for nearly an hour. I
only spotted him myself a few minutes before all the action started, and I make
a point of studying everybody at Callahan's Place.
  First thing, I saw those eyes. You get used to some haunted eyes in
Callahan's-the newcomers have 'em -but these reminded me of a guy I knew once in
Topeka, who got four people with an antique revolver before they cut him down.
  I hoped like hell he'd visit the fireplace before he left.

  If you've never been to Callahan's Place, God's pity on you. Seek it in the
wilds of Suffolk County, but look not for neon. A simple, hand-lettered sign
illuminated by a single floodlight, and a heavy oaken door split in the center
(by the head of one Big Beef McCaffrey in 1947) and poorly repaired.
  Inside, several-heresies.
  First, the light is about as bright as you keep your living room. Callahan
maintains that people who like to drink in caves are unstable.
  Second, there's a flat rate. Every drink in the house is half a buck, with the
option. The option operates as follows:
  You place a one-dollar bill on the bar. If all you have on you is a fin, you
trot across the street to the all-night deli, get change, come back and put a
one-dollar bill on the bar. (Callahan maintains that nobody in his right mind
would counterfeit one-dollar bills; most of us figure he just likes to rub
fistfuls of them across his face after closing.)
  You are served your poison-of-choice. You inhale this, and confront the
option. You may, as you leave, pick up two quarters from the always-full
cigarbox at the end of the bar and exit into the night. Or you may, upon
finishing your drink, stride up to the chalk line in the middle of the room,
announce a toast (this is mandatory) and hurl your glass into the huge,
oldfashioned fireplace which takes up most of the back wall. You then depart
without visiting the cigarbox. Or, pony up another buck and exercise your option
again.
  Callahan seldom has to replenish the cigarbox. He orders glasses in such
quantities that they cost him next to nothing, and he sweeps out the fireplace
himself every morning.
  Another heresy: no one watches you with accusing eyes to make sure you take no
snore quarters than you have coming to you. If Callahan ever happens to catch
someone cheating him, he personally ejects them forever. Sometimes he doesn't
open the door first. The last time he had to eject someone was in 1947, a
gentleman named Big Beef McCaffrey.
  Not too surprisingly, it's a damned interesting place to be. It's the kind of
place you hear about only if you need to-and if you are very lucky. Because if a
patron, having proposed his toast and smithereened his glass, feels like talking
about the nature of his troubles, he receives the instant, undivided attention
of everyone in the room. (That's why the toast is obligatory. Many a man with a
hurt locked inside finds in the act of naming his hurt for the toast that he
wants very much to talk about it. Callahan is one smart hombre.) On the other
hand, even the most tantalizingly cryptic toast will bring no prying inquiries
if the guy displays no desire to uncork. Anyone attempting to flout this custom
is promptly blackjacked by Fast Eddie the piano player and dumped in the alley.
  But somehow many do feel like spilling it in a place like Callahan's; and you
can get a deeper insight into human nature in a week there than in ten years
anywhere else I know. You can also quite likely find solace for most any kind of
trouble, from Callahan himself if no one else. It's a rare hurt that can stand
under the advice, help and sympathy generated by upwards of thirty people that
care. Callahan loses a lot of his regulars. After they've been coming around
long enough, they find they don't need to drink any more.
  It's that kind of a bar.

  I don't want you to get a picture of Callahan's Place as an agonized,
Alcoholics Anonymous type of groupencounter session, with Callahan as some sort
of salty psychoanalyst-father-figure in the foreground. Hell, many's the toast
provokes roars of laughter, or a shouted chorus of agreement, or a unanimous
blitz of glasses from all over the room when the night is particularly spirited.
Callahan is tolerant of rannygazoo; he maintains that a bar should be "merry,"
so long as no bones are broken unintentionally. I mind the time he helped Spud
Flynn set fire to a seat cushion to settle a bet on which way the draft was
coming. Callahan exudes, at all times, 'a kind of monolithic calm; and u.s. 40
is shorter than his temper.
  This night I'm telling you about, for instance, was nothing if not merry. When
I pulled in around ten o'clock, there was an unholy shambles of a square dance
going on in the middle of the floor. I laid a dollar on the bar, collected a
glass of Tullamore Dew and a hello-grin from Callahan, and settled back in a
tall chair-Callahan abhors barstools-to observe the goings-on. That's what I
mean about Callahan's Place: most bars, men only dance if there're ladies
around. Of one sex or another.
  I picked some familiar faces out of the maelstrom of madmen weaving and
lurching over honest-to-God sawdust, and waved a few greetings. There was Tom
Flannery, who at that time had eight months to live, and knew it; he laughed a
lot at Callahan's Place. There was Slippery Joe Maser, who had two wives, and
Marty Matthias, who didn't gamble any more, and Noah Gonzalez, who worked on
Suffolk County's bomb squad. Calling for the square dance while performing a
creditable Irish jig was Doc Webster, fat and jovial as the day he pumped the
pills out of my stomach and ordered me to Callahan's. See, I used to have a wife
and daughter before I decided to install my own brakes. I saved thirty dollars,
easy . . .
  The Doc left the square-dancers to their fate-their creative individuality
making a caller superfluous-and drifted over like a pink zeppelin to say Hello.
His stethoscope hung unnoticed from his ears, framing a smile like a sunlamp.
The end of the 'scope was in his drink.
  "Howdy, Doc. Always wondered how you kept that damned thing so cold," I
greeted him.
  He blinked like an owl with the staggers and looked down at the gently
bubbling pickup beneath two fingers of scotch. Emitting a bellow of laughter at
about force eight, he removed the gleaming think and shook it experimentally.
  "My secret's out, Jake. Keep it under your hat, will you?" he boomed.
  "Maybe you beter keep it under yours," I suggested. He appeared to consider
this idea for a time, while I speculated on one of life's greatest paradoxes:
Sam Webster, M.D. The Doc is good for a couple of quarts of Peter Dawson a
night, three or four nights a week. But you won't find a better sawbones
anywhere on Earth, and those sausage fingers of his can move like a tap-dancing
centipede when they have to, with nary a tremor. Ask Shorty Steinitz to tell you
about the time Doc Webster took out his appendix on top of Callahan's bar . . .
while Callahan calmly kept the Scotch coming.
  "At least then I could hear myself think," the Doc finally replied, and
several people seated within earshot groaned theatrically.
  "Have a heart, Doc," one called out.
  "What a re-pulse-ive idea," the Doc returned the serve.
  "Well, I know when I'm beat," said the challenger, and made as if to turn
away.
  "Why, you young whelp, aorta poke you one," roared the Doc, and the bar
exploded with laughter and cheers. Callahan picked up a beer bottle in his huge
hand and pegged it across the bar at the Doc's round skull. The beer bottle,
being made of foam rubber, bounced gracefully into the air and landed in the
piano, where Fast Eddie sat locked in mortal combat with the "C-Jam Blues."
  Fast Eddie emitted a sound like an outraged transmission and kept right on
playing, though his upper register was shot. "Little beer never hoit a piano,"
he sang out as he reached the bridge, and went over it like he figured to burn
it behind him.
  All in all it looked like a cheerful night, but then I saw the Janssen kid
come in and I knew there was a trouble brewing.
  This Janssen kid-look, I can't knock long hair, I wore mine long when it
wasn't fashionable. And I can't knock pot for the same reason. But nobody I know
ever had a good thing to say for heroin. Certainly not Joe Hennessy, who did two
weeks in the hospital last year after he surprised the Janssen kid scooping
junk-money out of his safe at four in the morning. Old Man Janssen paid Hennessy
back every dime and disowned the kid, and he'd been in and out of sight ever
since. Word was he was still using the stuff, but the cops never seemed to catch
him holding. They sure did try, though. I wondered what the hell he was doing in
Callahan's Place.
  I should know better by now. He placed a tattered bill on the bar, took the
shot of bourbon which Callahan handed him silently, and walked to the chalk
line. He was quivering with repressed tension, and his boots squeaked on the
sawdust. The place quieted down some, and his toast--"To smack!"--rang out clear
and crisp. Then he downed the shot amid an expanding silence and flung his glass
so hard you could hear his shoulder crack just before the glass shattered on
unyielding brick.
  Having created silence, he broke it. With a sob. Even as he let it out he
glared around to see what our reactions were.
  Callahan's was immediate, an "Amen!" that sounded like an echo of the-smashing
glass. The kid made a face like he was somehow satisfied in spite of himself,
and looked at the rest of us. His gaze rested on Doc Webster, and the Doc
drifted over and gently began rolling up the kid's sleeves. The boy made no
effort to help or hinder him. When they were both rolled to the shoulder--
phosporescent purple I think they were--he silently held out his arms, palm-up.
  They were absolutely unmarked. Skinny as hell and white as a piece of paper,
but unmarked. The kid was clean.
  Everyone waited in silence, giving the kid their respectful attention. It was
a new feeling to him, and he didn't quite know how to handle it. Finally he
said, "I heard about this place," just a little too truculently.
  "Then you must of needed to," Callahan told him quietly, and the kid nodded
slowly.
  "I hear you get some answers in, from time to time," he half-asked.
  "Now and again," Callahan admitted. "Some o' the damndest questions, too.
What's it like, for instance?"
  "You mean smack?"
  "I don't mean bourbon."
  The kid's eyes got a funny, far-away look, and he almost smiled. "It's . . ."
He paused, considering. "It's like . . . being dead."
  "Whooee!" came a voice from across the room. "That's a powerful good feeling
indeed." I looked and saw it was Chuck Samms talking, and watched to see how the
kid would take it.
  He thought Chuck was being sarcastic and snapped back, "Well, what the hell do
you know about it anyway?" Chuck smiled. A lot of people ask him that question,
in a different tone of voice.
  "Me?" he said, enjoying himself hugely. "Why, I've been dead is all."
  "S'truth," Callahan confirmed as the kid's jaw dropped. "Chuck there was
legally dead for five minutes before the
  "Chuck got his pacemaker going again. The crumb died owing me money, and I
never had the heart to dun his widow."
  "Sure was a nice feeling, too," Chuck said around a yawn. "More peaceful than
nap-time in a monastery. If it wasn't so pleasant I wouldn't be near so damned
scared of it." There was an edge to his voice as he finished, but it disappeared
as he added softly, "What the hell would you want to be dead for?"
  The Janssen kid couldn't meet his eyes, and when he spoke his voice cracked.
"Like you said, pop, peace. A little peace of mind, a little quiet. Nobody
yammering at you all the time. I mean, if you're dead there's always the chance
somebody'll mourn, right? Make friends with the worms, dig their side of it,
maybe a little poltergeist action, who knows? I mean, what's the sense of
talking about it, anyway? Didn't any of you guys ever just want to nun away?"
  "Sure thing," said Callahan. "Sometimes I do it too. But I generally run
someplace I can find my way back from." It was said so gently that the kid
couldn't take offense, though he tried.
  "Run away from what, son?" asked Slippery Joe.
  The kid had been bottled up tight too long; he exploded. "From what?" he
yelled. "Jesus, where do I start? There was this war they wanted me to go and
fight, see? And there's this place called college, I mean they want you to care,
dig it, care about this education trip, and they don't care enough themselves to
make it as attractive as the crap game across the street. There's this air I
hear is unfit to breathe, and water that ain't fit to drink, and food that
wouldn't nourish a vulture and a grand outlook for the future. You can't get to
a job without the car you couldn't afford to run even if you were working, and
if you found a job it'd pay five dollars less than the rent. The T. V .
advertises karate classes for four-year-olds and up, the President's New Clothes
didn't wear very well, the next depression's around the corner and you ask me
what in the name of God I'm running from?
  "Man, I've been straight for seven months, what I mean, and in that seven god
damned months I have been over this island like a fungus and there is nothing
for me. No jobs, no friends, no place to live long enough to get the floor
dirty, no money and nobody that doesn't point and say "Junkie" when I go by for
seven months and you ask me what am I running from? Man, everything is all, just
everything."
  It was right then that I noticed that guy in the corner, the one with the
eyes. Remember him? He was leaning forward in rapt attention, his mouth a black
slash in a face pulled tight as a drumhead. Those ghastly eyes of his never left
the Janssen kid, but somehow I was sure that his awareness included all of us,
everyone in the room.
  And no one had an answer for the Janssen boy. I could see, all around the
room, men who had learned to listen Callahan's Place, men who had learned to
empathize, to want to understand and share the pain of another. And no one had a
word to say. They were thinking past the blurted words of a haunted boy,
wondering if this crazy world of confusion might not after all be one holy hell
of a place to grow up. Most of them already had reason to know damn well that
society never forgives the sinner, but they were realizing to their dismay how
thin and uncomforting the straight and narrow has become these last few years.
  Sure, they'd heard these things before, often enough to make them into
clichΘs. But now I could see the boys reflecting that these were the clichΘs
that made a young man say he liked to feel dead, and the same thought was
mirrored on the face of each of them: My God, when did we let these things
become clichΘs? The Problems of Today's Youth were no longer a Sunday supplement
or a news broadcast or anything so remote and intangible, they were suddenly
become a dirty, shivering boy who told us that in this world we had built for
him with our sweat and our blood he was not only tired of living, but so
unscared of dying that he did it daily, sometimes, for recreation.
  And silence held court in Callahan's Place. No one had a single thing to say,
and that guy with the eyes seemed to know it, and to derive some crazy kind of
bitter inner satisfaction from the knowledge. He started to settle back in his
chair, when Callahan broke the silence.
  "So run," he said.
  Just like that, flat, no expression, just, "So run." It hung there for about
ten seconds, while he and the kid locked eyes.
  The kid's forehead started to bead with sweat. Slowly, with shaking fingers,
he reached under his leather vest to his shirt pocket. Knuckles white, he hauled
out a flat, shiny black case about four inches by two. His eyes never left
Callahan's as he opened it and held it up so that we could all see the gleaming
hypodermic. It didn't look like it had ever been used; he must have just stolen
it.
  He held it up to the light for a moment, looking up his bare, unmarked arm at
it, and then he whirled and flung it case and all into the giant fireplace.
Almost as it shattered he sent a cellophane bag of white powder after it, and
the powder burned green while the sudden stillness hung in the air. The guy with
the eyes looked oddly stricken in some interior way, and he sat absolutely rigid
in his seat.
  And Callahan was around the bar in an instant, handing the Janssen kid a beer
that grew out of his fist and roaring, "Welcome home, Tommy!" and no one in the
place was very startled to realize that only Callahan of all of us knew the
kid's first name.
  We all sort of swarmed around then and swatted the kid on the arm some and he
even cried a little until we poured some beer over his head and pretty soon it
began to look like the night was going to get merry again after all.
  And that's when the guy with the eyes stood up, and everybody in the joint
shut up and turned to look at him. That sounds melodramatic, but it's the effect
he had on us. When he moved, he was the center of attention. He was tall,
unreasonably tall, near seven foot, and I'll never know why we hadn't all
noticed him right off. He was dressed in a black suit that fit worse than a
Joliet Special, and his shoes didn't look right either. After a moment you
realized that he had the left shoe on the right foot, and vice-versa, but it
didn't surprise you. He was thin and deeply tanned and his mouth was twisted up
tight but mostly he was eyes, and I still dream of those eyes and wake up
sweating now and again. They were like windows into hell, the very personal and
private hell of a man faced with a dilemma he cannot resolve. They did not
blink, not once.
  He shambled to the bar, and something was wrong with his walk, too, like he
was walking sideways on the wall with magnetic shoes and hadn't quite caught the
knack yet. He took ten new singles out of his jacket pocket -which struck me as
an odd place to keep cash-and laid them on the bar.

  Callahan seemed to come back from a far place, and hustled around behind the
bar again. He looked the stranger up and down and then placed ten shot glasses
on the counter. He filled each with rye and stood back silently, running a big
red hand through his thinning hair and regarding the stranger with clinical
interest.
  The dark giant tossed off the first shot, shuffled to the chalk line, and said
in oddly-accented English, "To my profession," and hurled the glass into the
fireplace.
  Then he walked back to the bar and repeated the entire procedure. Ten times.
  By the last glass, brick was chipping in the fireplace.
  When the last, "To my profession," echoed in empty air; he turned and faced
us. He waited, tensely, for question or challenge. There was none. He half
turned away, paused, then swung back and took a couple of deep breaths. When he
spoke his voice made you hurt to hear it.
  "My profession, gentlemen," he said with that funny accent I couldn't place,
"is that of advance scout. For a race whose home is many light-years from here.
Many, many light-years from here." He paused, looking for our reactions.
  Well, I thought, ten whiskeys and he's a Martian. Indeed. Pleased to meet you,
I'm Popeye the Sailor. I guess it was pretty obvious we were all thinking the
same way, because he looked tired and said, "it would take far more ethanol than
that to befuddle me, gentlemen." Nobody said a word to that, and he turned to
Callahan. "You know I am not intoxicated," he stated.
  Callahan considered him professionally and said finally, "Nope. You're not
tight. I'll be a son of a bitch, but you're not tight."
  The stranger nodded thanks, spoke thereafter directly to Callahan. "I am here
now three days. In two hours I shall be finished. When I am finished I shall go
home. After I have gone your planet will be vaporized. I have accumulated data
which will ensure the annihilation of your species when they are assimilated by
my Masters. To them, you will seem as cancerous cells, in danger of infecting
all you touch. You will not be permitted to exist. You will be cured. And I
repent me of my profession."
  Maybe I wouldn't have believed it anywhere else. But at Callahan's Place
anything can happen. Hell, we all believed him. Fast Eddie sang out, "Anyt'ing
we can do about it?" and he was serious for sure. You can tell with Fast Eddie.
  "I am helpless," the giant alien said dispassionately. "I contain . . .
installations . . . which are beyond my influencing-or yours. They have recorded
all the data I have perceived in these three days; in two hours a preset
mechanism will be triggered and will transmit their contents to the Masters." I
looked at my watch: it was eleven-fifteen. "The conclusions of the Masters are
foregone. I cannot prevent the transmission; I cannot even attempt to. I am
counterprogrammed."
  "Why are you in this line of work if it bugs you so much?" Callahan wanted to
know. No hostility, no panic. He was trying to understand.
  "I am accustomed to take pride in my work," the alien said. "I make safe the
paths of the Masters. They must not be threatened by warlike species. I go
before, to identify danger, and see to its neutralization. It is a good
profession, I think. I thought."
  "What changed your mind?" asked Doc Webster sympathetically.
  "This place, this . . . `bar' place we are in-this is not like the rest I have
seen. Outside are hatred, competition, morals elevated to the status of ethics,
prejudices elevated to the status of morals, whims elevated to the status of
prejudices, all things with which I am wearily familiar, the classic symptoms of
disease.
  "But here is difference. Here in this place I sense qualities, attributes I
did not know your species possessed, attributes which everywhere else in the
known universe are mutually exclusive of the things I have perceived here
tonight. They are good things . . . they cause me great anguish for your
passing. They fill me with hurt.
  "Oh, that I might lay down my geas," he cried. "I did not know that you had
love!"

  In the echoing stillness, Callahan said simply, "Sure we do, son. It's mebbe
spread a little thin these days, but we've got it all right. Sure would be a
shame if it all went up in smoke." He looked down at the rye bottle he still
held in his big hand, and absently drank off a couple ounces. "Any chance that
your masters might feel the same way?"
  "None. Even I can still see that you must be destroyed if the Masters are to
be safe. But for the first time in some thousands of years, I regret my
profession. I fear I can do no more."
  "No way you can gum up the works?"
  "None. So long as I am alive and conscious, the transmission will take place.
I could not assemble the volition to stop it. I have said: I am
counterprogrammed."
  I saw Noah Gonzalez' expression soften, heard him say, "Geez, buddy, that's
hard lines." A mumbled agreement rose, and Callahan nodded slowly.
  "That's tough, brother. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes."
  He looked at us with absolute astonishment, the hurt in those terrible eyes of
his mixed now with bewilderment. Shorty handed him another drink and it was like
he didn't know what to do with it.
  "You tell us how much it will take, mister," Shorty said respectfully, "and
we'll get you drunk."
  The tall man with star-burned skin groaned from deep within himself and backed
away until the fireplace contained him. He and the flames ignored each other,
and no one found it surprising.
  "What is your matter?" he cried. "Why are you not destroying me? You fools,
you need only destroy me and you are saved. I am your judge. I am your jury. I
will be your executioner."
  "You didn't ask for the job," Shorty said gently. "It ain't your doing."
  "But you do not understand! If my data are not transmitted, the Masters will
assume my destruction and avoid this system forever. Only the equal or superior
of a Master could overcome my defenses, but I can control them. I will not use
them. Do you comprehend me? I will not activate my defenses-you can destroy me
and save yourselves and your species, and I will not hinder you.
  "Kill me!" he shrieked.
  There was a long, long pause, maybe a second or two, and then Callahan pointed
to the drink Shorty still held out and growled, "You better drink that, friend.
You need it. Talkin' of killin' in my joint. Wash your mouth out with bourbon
and get outta that fireplace, I want to use it."
  "Yeah, me too!" came the cry on all sides, and the big guy looked like he was
gonna cry. Conversations started up again and Fast Eddie began playing "I Don't
Want to Set the World On Fire," in very bad taste indeed.

  Some of the boys wandered thoughtfully out, going home to tell their families,
or settle their affairs. The rest of us, lacking either concern, drifted over to
console the alien. I mean, where else would I want to be on Judgement Day?
  He was sitting down, now, with booze of all kinds on the table before him. He
looked up at us like a wounded giant. But none of us knew how to begin, and
Callahan spoke first.
  "You never did tell us your name, friend."
  The alien looked startled, and he sat absolutely still, rigid as a fence post,
for a long, long moment. His face twisted up awful, as though he was waging some
titanic inner battle with himself, and cords of muscle stood up on his neck in
what didn't seem to be the right places. Doc Webster began to talk to himself
softly.
  Then the alien went all blue and shivered like a steel cable under strain, and
very suddenly relaxed all over with an audible gasp. He twitched his shoulders
experimentally a few times, like he was making sure they were still there, and
then he turned to Callahan and said, clear as a bell, "My name is Michael Finn."
  It hung in the air for a very long time, while we all stood petrified,
suspended.
  Then Callahan's face split in a wide grin, and he bellowed, "Why of course!
Why yes, yes of course, Mickey Finn. I didn't recognize you for a moment, Mr.
Finn," as he trotted behind the bar. His big hands worked busily beneath the
counter, and as he emerged with a tall glass of dark fluid the last of us got
it. We made way eagerly as Callahan set the glass down before the alien, and
stood back with the utmost deference and respect.
  He regarded us for a moment, and to see his eyes now was to feel warm and
proud. For all the despair and guilt and anguish and horror and most of all the
hopelessness were gone from them now, and they were just eyes. Just like yours
and mine.
  Then he raised his glass and waited, and we all drank with him. Before the
last glass was empty his head hit the table like an anvil, and we had to pick
him up and carry him to the back room where Callahan keeps a cot, and you know,
he was heavy.
  And he snored in three stages.








                                       2

                               The Time-Traveler

  Of course we should have been expecting it. I guess the people at Callahan's
read newspapers just like other folks, and there'd been a discotheque over on
Jericho Turnpike hit three days earlier. But somehow none of us was prepared for
it when it came.
  Well, how were we to know? It's not that Callahan's Place is so isolated from
the world that you never expect it to be affected by the same things. God knows
that most of the troubles of the world, old and new, come through the door of
Callahan's sooner or later-but they usually have a dollar bill in their fist,
not a .45 automatic. Besides, he was such a shrimpy little guy.
  And on top of everything, it was Punday night.
  Punday Night is a weekly attraction at Callahan's-if that's the word. Folks
who come into the place for the first time on a Tuesday evening have been known
to flee screaming into the night, leaving full pitchers of beer behind in their
haste to be elsewhere. There's Sunday, see, and then there's Monday, and then
there's Punday. And on that day, the boys begin assembling around seven-thirty,
and after a time people stop piddling around with drafts and start lining up
pitchers, and Fast Eddie gets up from his beat-up upright piano and starts
pulling tables together. Everyone begins ever-so-casually jockeying for
position, so important on Punday night. Here and there the newer men can be
heard warming up with one another, and the first groans are heard.
  "Say, Fogerty. I hear tell Stacy Keach was engaged to the same girl three
times. Every time the Big Day come due, she decided she couldn't stand him."
  "Do tell."
  "Yup. Then the late Harry Truman hisself advised her, said, `gal, if you can't
stand the Keach, get out of the hitchin.' "
  And another three or four glasses hit the fireplace.
  Of course the real regulars, the old-timers, simply sit and drink their beer
and conserve their wit. They add little to the shattered welter of glass that
grows in the foreplace-though the toasts, when they make them, can get pretty
flashy.
  Along about eleven Doc Webster comes waddling in from his rounds and the place
hushes up. The Doc suffers his topcoat and bag to be taken from him, collects a
beer-mug full of Peter Dawson's from Callahan, and takes his place at the head
of the assembled tables like a liner coming into port. Then, folding his fingers
over his great belly, he addresses the group.
  "What is the topic?"
  At this point the fate of the evening hangs in the balance. Maybe you'll get a
good topic, maybe you won't -and the only way to explain what I mean is by
example:
  "Fast Eddie," says Callahan, "how 'bout a little inspirational music?"
  "That would bring the problem into scale," says Doc Webster, and the battle is
joined.
  "I had already noted that," comes the hasty riposte from Shorty Steinitz, and
over on his right Long-Drink McGonnigle snorts.
  "You've cleffed me in twain," he accuses, and Tommy Janssen advises him to
take a rest, and by the time that Callahan can point out that "This ain't a
music-hall, it's a bar," they're off and running. Once a topic is established,
it goes in rotation clockwise from Doc Webster, and if you can't supply a
stinker when your turn comes up, you're out. By one o'clock in the morning, it's
usually a tight contest between the real pros, all of them acutely aware that
anyone still in the lists by closing gets his night's tab erased. It has become
a point of honor to drink a good deal on Punday night to show how confident you
are. When I first noticed this and asked Callahan whose idea Punday had been in
the first place he told me he couldn't remember. One smart fella, that Callahan.
  This one night in particular had used up an awful lot of alcohol, and one hell
of a lot of spiritual fortitude. The topic was one of those naturals that can be
milked for hours: "electricity." It was about one-fifteen that the trouble
started.
  By this point in a harrowing evening, the competition was down to the Doc,
Noah Gonzalez and me. I was feeling decidedly pun-chy.
  "I have a feeling this is going to be a good round Fermi," the Doc mused, and
sent a few ounces of Scotch past an angelic smile.
  "You've galvanized us all once again, Doc," said Noah immediately.
  "Socket to me," I agreed enthusiastically.
  The Doc made a face, no great feat considering what he had to work with, and
glared at me. "Wire you debasing this contest with slang?" he intoned.
  "Oh, I don't know," interceded Noah. "It seems like an acceptable current
usage to me."
  "You see, Doc?" I said desperately, beginning to feel the strain now, "Noah
and I seem tube be in agreement."
  But Doc Webster wasn't looking at me. He wasn't even looking in my, direction.
He was staring fixedly over Noah's right shoulder. "I regret to inform you all,"
he said with the utmost calm, "that the gent at the bar is not packing a
lightning rod."
  About thirty heads spun around at once, and sure enough, there was a guy in
front of the bar with a .45 automatic in his hand, and Callahan was staring
equably into the medicine end. He was holding out a salt-shaker in his huge
horny fist.
  "What's that for?" the gunman demanded.
  "Might as well salt that thing, son. You're about to eat it.

  Now your run-of-the-mill stickup artist would react to a line like that by
waving the rod around a little, maybe even picking off the odd bottle behind the
bar. This fellow just looked more depressed.
  He didn't look like a stickup artist if it came to that; I'd have taken him
for an insurance salesman down on his luck. He was short, slight and balding,
and his goldrimmed glasses pinched cruelly at his nose. His features were
utterly nondescript, a Walter Mitty caricature of despair, and I couldn't help
remembering that some of our more notable assassins have been Walter Mitty
types.
  Then I saw Fast Eddie over at the piano slide his hand down to his boot for
the little blackjack he carries for emergencies, and began trying to remember if
my insurance was paid up. The scrawny gunman locked eyes with Callahan, holding
the cannon steady as a rock, and Callahan smiled.
  "Want a drink to wash it down with?" he asked.
  The guy with the gun ran out of determination all at once and lowered the
piece, looking around him vaguely. Callahan pointed to the fireplace, and the
guy nodded thanks. The gun described a lazy arc and landed in the pile of glass
with a sound like change rattling in a pocket.
  You might almost have thought the gun had shattered a window that kept out a
storm, but the whooshing sound that followed was really only the noise of a
couple dozen guys all exhaling at the same time. Fast Eddie's hand slid back up
his leg, and Callahan said softly, "You forgot the toast, friend."
  I expected that to confuse the guy, but it seemed he knew something about
Callahan's Place after all, because he just nodded and made his toast.
  "To progress."
  I could see people all up and down the bar firing up their guessers, but
nobody opened his trap. We waited to see if the guy felt like telling us what
his beef with progress was, and when you understand that you will have gone a
long way toward understanding what Callahan's Place is all about. I'm sure
anywhere else folks'd figure that a man who'd just waved a gun around owed 'em
an explanation, if not a few teeth. We just sat there looking noncommittal and
hoping he'd let it out.
  He did.
  "I mean, progress is something with no pity and no purpose. It just happens.
It chews up all you ever knew and spits out things you can't understand and the
only value it seems to have is to make a few people a lot of money. What the
hell is the sense of progress anyway?"
  "Keeps the dust off ya," said Slippery Joe Maser seriously. Now Joe, as you
know, has two wives, and there sure as hell ain't no dust on him.
  "I suppose you're right," said the clerical-looking burglar, "but I'd surely
appreciate a little dust just at the moment. I was hip-deep in it for years, and
I didn't know how well off I was."
  "Well, take this to cut it with," said Callahan, and held out a gin-and-gin.
As he handed it over, his other hand came up from behind the bar with a sawed-
off shotgun in it. "I'll be damned," said Callahan, noticing it for the first
time, "Forgot I had that in my hand." He put it back under the bar, and the
balding bandit swallowed.
  "Now then, brother, pull up a chair and tell us your name, and if you've got
troubles I never heard before I'll give you the case of your choice."
  "Make it I. W. Harper."
  "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Harp-oooooooch!" said Doc Webster, the last rising
syllable occasioned by Long-drink McGonnigle's size nines having come down hard
on the Doc's instep. Pretty quick on the uptake, that Long-Drink.
  "My name is Hauptman," the fellow said, picking up the drink. "Thomas
Hauptman. I'm a . . ." He took a long pull. "That is, I used to be a minister."
  "And then God went and died and now what the hell do you do, is that it?"
asked Long-Drink with genuine sympathy.
  "Something like that," Hauptman agreed. "He died of malaria in a stinking
little cell in a stinking little town in a stinking little banana republic
called Pasala, and his name was Mary." Ice cubes clicked against his teeth.
  "Your wife?" asked Callahan after a while.
  "Yes. My wife. No one dies of malaria any more, do you know that? I mean, they
licked that one years ago."
  "How'd it happen?" Doc asked gently, and as Callahan refilled glasses all
around, the Time-Traveler told us history.

  Mary and I (he said) had a special game we played between ourselves. Oh, all
couples play the same game, I suppose, but we knew we were doing it, and we
never cheated.
  You see, as many of you are no doubt aware, it is often difficult for a man
and a woman to agree (sustained audience demonstration, signifying hearty
agreement) . . . even a minister and his wife. Almost any given course of action
will have two sides: she wants to spend Sunday driving in the country, and he
wants to spend it watching the football people sell razor blades.
  How is the dilemma resolved? Often by histrionics, at ten paces. She will
emote feverishly on the joys of a country drive, entering rapture as she
portrays the heartstopping beauty to be found along Route 25A at this time of
year. He, in turn, will roll his eyes and saw his hands as he attempts to convey
through the wholly inadequate vocabulary of word and gesture how crucial this
particular game is to both the History of Football and the Scheme of Things.
  The winner gets, in lieu of an Oscar, his or her own way.
  It's a fairly reasonable system, based on the theory that the pitch of your
performance is a function of how important the goal is to you. If you recognize
that you're being out-acted, you realize how important this one is to your
spouse, and you acquiesce.
  The not-cheating comes right there-in not hamming it up just to be the winner
(unless, rarely, that's the real issue), and in admitting you've been topped.
  That's why when Mary brought God into the argument--a highly unfair, last-
ditch gambit for a minister's wife--I gave in and agreed that we would spend my
vacation visiting her sister Corinne.
  I had given up a congregation over in Sayville, not very far from here.
Frankly Mary and I had had all the Long Island we could take. We hadn't even any
plans: weintended to take a month's vacation, our first in several years, and
then decide where to settle next. I wanted to spend the month with friends in
Boulder, Colorado, and Mary wanted to visit her sister in a little fly-speck
banana republic called Pasala. Corinne was a nurse with the Peace Corps, and
they hadn't seen each other for seven or eight years.
  As I said, when a minister's wife begins to tell him about missionary zeal, it
is time to capitulate. We said good-bye to my successor, Reverend Davis,
promised to send a forwarding address as soon as we had one, and pushed off in
the winter of 1963.
  We divided the voyage between discussing the growing unpleasantness in a place
called Viet Nam, and arguing over whether to ultimately settle on the West or
East Coast. We both gave uncertain, shaky performances, and the issue was
tabled.
  Meeting Corinne for the first time I was terribly struck by a dissimilarity of
the sisters. Where Mary's hair was a rich, almost chocolate brown, Corinne's
was. a decidedly vivid red. Where Mary's features were round, Corinne's were
square, with pronounced cheekbones. Where Mary was small and soft, Corinne was
long and lithe. They were both very, very beautiful, but the only characteristic
they shared was a profundity of faith that had nothing to do with heredity, and
which went quite as well with Corinne's fiery sense of purpose as with Mary's
quiet certainty.
  Pasala turned out to be a perfect comic-opera Central American country,
presided over by a smalltime tyrant named De Villega. The hospital where Corinne
worked was located directly across the Plaza de Palacio from the palace which
gave the square its name. De Villega had built himself an immense mausoleum of
an imitation castle from which to rule, at about the same time that the hospital
was built, with much the same sources of funding. Pasala, you see, exports
maize, sugar cane, a good deal of mahogany . . . and oil.
  As Corinne led us past the palace from the harbor, I commented on the number
of heavily-armed guardias, in groups of five each of which had its own
comisario, who stood at every point of entry to the huge stone structure with
their rifles at the ready. Corinne told us that revolution was brewing in the
hills to the north, under the leadership of a man named Miranda, who with absurd
inevitability had styled himself El Supremo. Mary and I roared with laughter at
this final clichΘ, and demanded to be shown someone taking a siesta.
  Without cracking a smile, Corinne led us around behind the hospital, where
four mule-drawn carts were filled with khaki figures taking the siesta that
never ends. "You cannot deal with the problems of Pasala by changing the
channel, Tom," she said soberly, and my horror was replaced by both a wave of
guilt and a wistful, palpebral vision of Boulder in the spring-which of course
only made me feel more guilty.
  We dined that night in a miserable excuse for a cafe, but the food was
tolerable and the music quite good. Considering that the two women had not seen
each other for years, it was not surprising that the conversation flowed freely.
And it kept coming back to El Supremo.
  "I have heard it said that his cause is just," Corinne told us over coffee,
"and I certainly can't argue otherwise. But the hospital is filled with the by-
products of his cause, and I'm sick of revolution. It's been worse than ever
since de Villega had Miranda's brother shot."
  "Good God. How did that come about?" I exclaimed.
  "Pablo Miranda used to run this cafe, and he never had a thing to do with
revolution. In fact, an awful lot of militant types used to drink in a much more
villainous place on the other side of town, rather than embarrass Pablo with
their presence. But after El Supremo blew up the armory, de Villega went a
little crazy. A squad of guardias came in the door and cut Pablo in half.
  "Things have been accelerating ever since. People are afraid to travel by
night, and de Villega has his thugs on double shifts. There are rumors that he's
bringing in trucks, and cannon, and a lot of ammunition from the United States,
for an expedition to clean out the hills, and the American Embassy is awfully
tight-lipped about it."
  "What kind of a ruler is de Villega?" Mary asked.
  "Oh, an absolute thief. He robs the peons dry, rakes off all he can, and I'm
sure the country would be better off if he'd never been born. But then, there
are some conflicting reports about El Supremo too: some say he's a bit of a
butcher himself. And of course he's a Communist, although God only knows what
that means in Central America these days."
  I began to reply, when we heard an ear-splitting crash from outside the cafe.
Glasses danced off tables and shattered, and pandemonium broke loose. Three men
scrambled to the door to see what had happened; as they reached the doorway a
machinegun spoke, blowing all three back into the cafe. They lay as they fell,
and Mary began to scream.
  "Tom," Corinne shouted above the din of gunfire and panic-stricken people,
"we've got to get to the hospital. "
  "How do we get out?" I yelled back, rising and lifting Mary from her seat.
  "This way."
  Corinne led us rapidly through the jabbering crowd to a back exit, at which
were gathered a good number of people too frightened to stick their heads out
the door. I was inclined to agree with them, but Corinne simply walked out into
the night. I glanced at Mary, she returned my gaze serenely, and we followed.
  There were no sudden barks of gunfire; the revolutionaries were not really
interested in anyone within the cafe, they were simply shooting anything that
moved back in the plaza.
  As I helped Mary through the dark streets behind Corinne I tried to figure the
way back to the hospital, but I could not recall where the back door of the cafe
lay in relation to the door through which we had entered. But it seemed to me
that we would have to cross the plaza.
  I called to Corinne and she halted. As I came up to her a volley of gunfire
sounded off to our left, ending in a choking gurgle.
  "Considering what you've told us about Miranda's egregious charm," I said as
softly as a heaving chest would let me, "hadn't I better get you two ladies to
the America Embassy?-It's built like a fort." And it lay on this side of the
Plaza.
  "The hospital is very short-staffed, Tom," was all Corinne replied, with a
total absence of facial expression or gesture. But I knew I could never equal a
performance like that in a lifetime of trying. As she spun on her heel and
continued walking, Mary and I exchanged a long look.
  "And she's a rank amateur," I said, shaking my head sadly.
  "She and I used to do summer stock together," she said, and we followed
Corinne's disappearing footsteps.
  Crossing the plaza turned out to be no more difficult than juggling poison
darts; the few who shot at us were terrible marksmen. By the time it was
necessary to cross open space, most of the fighting had centralized around the
Palace itself, and both sides were in general much too busy to waste good
bullets on three civilians running in the opposite direction. But as we reached
the hospital, I glanced over my shoulder and saw trucks pulling around the
corner of the building into the plaza, towing cannon behind them. As we raced
through white corridors toward the Emergency Room I heard the first reports,
then nothing.
  The artillery provided by the U.S. State Department got off exactly three
rounds. At that point, we later learned, a bearded man appeared on the palace
balcony, overlooking the carnage in the square, and heaved something down onto
the trampled sward. It was de Villega's head. Sensing the political climate with
creditable speed, the uniformed cannoneers worked up a ragged cheer, and the
revolution was over.
  But not for us. The maimed and wounded who continued to be brought in through
the night gave me my first real understanding of the term waking nightmare, and
until you have spent a couple of hours collecting random limbs and organs for
disposal I will thank you not to use the term yourself. I had rather naively
assumed that the worst would be over when the battle stopped, but that turned
out to be only the signal for the rape and plundering and settling of ancient
grudges, which got a good deal uglier. I tried to get Mary to take a few hours
of sleep, and she tried to get me to do the same, and although we both put on
the performance of a lifetime neither of us would concede defeat.
  It was about three the next afternoon when I heard the scream. I left one of
de Villega's rurales to finish sewing up his own arm and sprinted down a crowded
hall toward the surgery where Mary and Corinne had been for the past thirteen
hours. It sounded as though the scream had come from there . . .
  It had. As I burst in the door I saw Mary first, in the impersonally efficient
grip of the largest man I've ever seen in my life. Then I saw Corinne,
struggling with a broad-backed revolutionary who was throttling a uniformed
patient on the operating table. The crossed bandoliers over his shoulders rose
and fell as he strangled, as though he wanted there to be more to it than simply
clenching his fingers. Corinne's flailing fists he noticed not at all.
  She was undoubtedly stronger than I--I wasted no time in tugging at the
madman's shoulder. I picked up the nearest heavy object, a water pitcher I
believe, and bounced it off the back of his skull as hard as I could. He sighed
and crumpled, and I whirled toward the giant that held my Mary.
  "You should not have done that, senor," he said in a deep, soft voice. "The
man on the bed, he once did a discourtesy to Pedro's wife. A grave discourtesy."
  "Get out of this room at once," Corinne snapped in her best drill-sergeant
voice, shaking with rage.
  The big man shook his head sadly. "I am afraid not; senorita," he rumpled.
Hands like shovels tightened around Mary's biceps, and she still had not uttered
a sound since I burst in. "Senor," the giant said to me, "you must please put
down that pitcher, or I will be forced to do your own wife a small discourtesy."
I started. "Ah, you see? I know who you are; and I would not wish to be
discourteous to the wife of a man of God."
  The gorilla on the floor began to stir, and the huge man sighed. "I am afraid
it is all over for you, Padre. Pedro, he is a most unreasonable man when he
feels his honor is at stake. You hit him from behind."
  Corinne snarled and leaped at him, and I followed suit. Even together we could
not budge him or his iron grip, but we kept him too busy to hurt Mary, and I
think we might eventually have prevailed. But suddenly something large and heavy
smashed into my left kidney, and I fell to the floor gasping with pain. Through
the haze I saw Pedro, his tangled hair soaked with blood on the side, step over
me and reach for Mary, and my soul died in my chest.
  Then my ears rang with a shot, and I twisted about on the floor to see a tall
man with a bristling mustache framed in the doorway, a smoking automatic in his
hand. He wore the shapeless khakis of the mountains and there was an easy
arrogance in the smile with which he regarded all of us.
  Behind me there was thud as a body hit the floor. Half-blind with pain, I
contrived to roll over again and saw that the pistol shot had taken off the top
of Pedro's skull.
  "There is that about martial law," said the man in the doorway with sardonic
amusement. "It is addictive."
  I finally managed to sit up, bracing myself against a large oxygen bottle.
"Who are you?" I managed.
  The lean, mustached man bowed low. "Permit me to introduce myself, Padre. I am
El Supremo a Illustrisimo Senor Manuel Conception de Miranda, the current ruler
of this republic. You in turn, are the Reverend Hauptman, and I must assume that
the charming lady there-release her at once, Diego-is your wife Mary."
  His excellent English bespoke an unusual degree of education, and his bearing
was a studied claim to nobility. I began to believe that we three might survive
the afternoon for the first time in what seemed like hours.
  "How do you all seem to know who we are?" I asked. "We only arrived yesterday,
and I don't think we've spoken to more than a handful of Pasalans. Yet that
monster over there knew us . . . and I'm sure I'd remember him."
  "I know all about the comings and goings of all American nationals in Pasala,"
he said smugly. "Your country has been a source of much inconvenience to me, and
I am a thorough man, as are my lieutenants. Diego is one; Pedro there was
another. I cannot abide by a lieutenant who loses his head." He holstered his
gun and entered the room, and I struggled to my feet with Mary's help. We clung
together, and she trembled violently.
  El Supremo looked about, failed to find a place to sit.
  He strode to the operating table, shoved the wounded and unconscious soldier
off onto the hard floor quite casually, and sat down with his legs dangling over
the edge.
  Corinne went for him, but before she covered three feet the giant Diego
intercepted her and lifted her clear off her feet. She struck at his face with
balled fists, but he appeared not to notice. She was sobbing with rage.
  "Diego," said Miranda with a grin, "since you do not seem to be content unless
you have a woman in your hands, why don't you take the young lady to my
apartments and keep her there until I come, eh?"
  Mary and I both cried out.
  "My friends," said Miranda, still grinning, "this is only justice. I had a
woman, Rosa, and she was heart of my heart. She was killed last night, by an
American cannon shell. Because of your country, I have no woman. It seems only
fair that America give me a woman. I prefer an unmarried woman, and I do not
think the sister of a minister's wife will disappoint me." He laughed, a gay
laugh that froze my blood.
  "There is that about martial law," I heard myself say. "It is selective."
  "Explain," El Supremo barked.
  "I believe the man on the floor over there was shot for attempted rape," I
said quietly.
  "Padre," said the tall revolutionary, drawing his gun again, "in the absence
of a lawful constitution for Pasala I must do the best I can myself.
Occasionally I may be inconsistent, as I am now in sentencing you and your wife
to ten years' imprisonment for disturbing the peace.
  "But you will find that there is this about martial law: it is effective."
  The next twenty minutes were the last free minutes I would spend for ten
years, and the last free minutes of Mary's life, but I don't remember one of
them. El Supremo marched us at gunpoint across the plaza to the palace, down
many flights of stairs, to the lowest of the three basement floors which made up
the palace's dungeons. There he locked us personally into a nine-by-twelve stone
cell, and left.
  We were there for nine years, and I will not speak of those years. After Mary
died, I was alone there for eleven months longer, and I will not think of those
months. I will only say that in the first weeks, I thanked God for giving
Miranda the spark of humanity which caused him to put both Mary and me in the
same cell . . . but soon, as I began to see the subtlety and horror of his true
intent, I came to curse him with a black hatred. Ten years inside a stone cube
with no heat, no ventilation and a pail for a toilet can do much to a marriage,
and that Mary and I survived as long as we did was, I assure you, due only to
the depth and strength of her character. And even she couldn't keep me from
losing my faith in God . . .
  The minister was silent, staring into his glass as though he read there a
strange and terrible secret which he could not quite believe. The stillness was
absolute; no flames danced in the fireplace. I caught Doc Webster's eye, and he
seemed to come back from somewhere else with a start.
  "What happened to Corinne?" he asked hoarsely.
  Hauptman put down his glass suddenly, and looked around at us incuriously.
"I've been told she died that night," he said conversationally, "and I rather
hope it's true. Miranda was . . . an animal."
  "Couldn't the American Embassy do anything to get you out?" asked Long-Drink
quickly, and I saw Callahan nod approval.
  "The American Embassy," replied Hauptman bitterly, "neither had the slightest
knowledge of our incarceration, nor cared to know. If anyone at all was aware of
our presence in Pasala, he must have assumed we had been killed in the uprising,
and he undoubtedly heaved a great sigh when he realized he had no idea who to
send condolences to." His words came like machine-gun bullets now.
  "We were listed in the prison records as `Hidalgo, Tomaso and Maria,
subversives,' and that was quite good enough for the State Department, if they
checked at all. El Supremo was quite an embarrassment to the United States, and
when they had him assassinated two years later, the puppet presidentes they
installed were far too busy entertaining American oil executives to be bothered
inspecting the palace dungeons. The only human we saw for nine years was a
perpetually drunken jailer who brought such of our food as he didn't eat
himself. I'd be there now, except that when . . . when Mary died, th-they. . ."
He broke off, got a fresh grip on himself and continued, "Someone noticed her
body being removed for burial, and became curious as to why Maria Hidalgo looked
like an American. It was a year before I was released, owing to, let me see now,
`political complications of an extremely delicate nature in the Middle East,' I
think they said . . . my god, I just realized what they meant! It sounded insane
at the time, and I hadn't thought about it since." He laughed bitterly. "Well,
what do you know? Anyway, for the last six months I was there I had Red Cross
food and a blanket, so that was hunky-dory. Turned out there was a man from
Baltimore four cells down, part of the hospital staff, and he was released too.
If Mary hadn't died we'd both still be there." The minister laughed again,
gulped down the rest of his gin-and-gin and made a face. "She was always getting
me out of scrapes."
  More gin appeared before him; he gulped it noisily.
  "You know," he said with a dangerous high note in his voice, "in all the nine
years the prayers never stopped rising from that filthy little cell. For the
first three years, we prayed that someone would depose El Supremo. For
approximately the next three years, Mary prayed constantly that my faith in God
would return. Then, for about a year, 'I prayed to I-don't-know-who that Mary
would live. And after malaria took her, I spent my time praying to anyone who
would listen for a chance to kill El Supremo with my own hands.
  "I mean to say, isn't it ironic? All that prayer, and none of it did the
slightest good. El Supremo was dead all the time, I never seemed to get that
belief back, and Mary . . ." He broke off short and began to laugh softly, a
laugh that got shriller and shriller until the glass burst in his hand. He then
just sat and looked at his bleeding palm until Doc Webster came over and gently
took it away from him.
  "Well, at least this damned thing is disinfected," the Doc grumbled. "Don't
ever pull that with an empty glass." Someone fetched his battered black bag, and
he began applying a dressing.
  Along about that point, everyone in the place got real interested in the floor
or the ceiling. It somehow didn't seem as though there was a single intelligent
thing that could be said, and it was slowly becoming necessary that somebody say
something.
  Callahan was right there.
  "Reverend," he rumbled, hooking a thumb in his belt, "that's a right sad
story. I've heard an awful lot of blues, and I can't say I ever heard worse. But
what I would like to have explained to me is how, if you follow me, the hell
does all this bring you into my joint with a heater in your fist?" There was
steel in his voice, and the minister looked up sharply, guilt replacing the
agony on his features. Bravo, Callahan, I thought.
  See, I knew what the preacher couldn't: that when there's anger in Callahan's
voice, it's just got to be theatrics, because when Callahan is good and truly
pissed off he don't bother to talk at all.
  The little minister was a while finding words. "You see," he said finally, as
the Doc finished bandaging his hand, "it was ten years. Ten years. I . . . I
don't know if you can understand what I mean. I know it's been two years since
Mary died- it's not just that. But you see, she was all I know for such a long
time, and now I don't know anything at all.
  "You must understand, in all that time we never saw a newspaper or a magazine
or a T . V .broadcast, never heard so much as a radio. We had utterly no
communication with the outside world; we were as isolated as two human beings
can be."
  "Hell," said Tommy Janssen, "that sounds like what I could use to straighten
out my head once and for all." I was thinking about a Theodore Sturgeon story
called "And Now The News," and I kind of agreed with Tommy, which shows how well
I'd read the story.
  "Straighten your head out!" Hauptman exploded.
  "Now, you know perfectly well what the boy means," Long-Drink interceded. "No
one is saying those years weren't nightmares for you, but you know, they were
nothing to write home to mother about for us. You missed a lot of turmoil, and
lot of bad times and trouble, and maybe in that at least you were better off. I
know most of us here have probably wished we could get away from everything for
a long spell, and you did it. What's wrong with isolation?"
  "Nothing, per se, " Hauptman said quietly. "The problem is this: the world
won't wait for you. You drop out for more than a short time, and brother, the
world goes on without you."
  "I think," said Callahan slowly, "I begin to see what you mean."
  "You don't even begin," Hauptman said flatly. "You can't. You're too close to
it. The whole world turns upside down in ten years, but you turn upside down
with it, and so to you it's right side up. It all happens over days and weeks
and months, and most people can adapt that fast. But I don't recognize the first
thing about this world-I didn't live through it.
  "Let me give all you good people a history lesson."
  He got up, walked to the bar and put out his hand. Callahan put a glass of gin
in it. He turned, faced us all, took a long swallow, and cleared his throat
pedantically.
  "Mary and I left for Pasala in February of 1963," he said. "I've since had
occasion to supplement my own memories with references from The New York Times,
and you may find some of them interesting.
  "On the day of our departure, for instance, there had been a total of thirty-
three Americans killed in Viet Nam since the start of U.S. involvement. Not that
anyone was aware of it: it wasn't until a few days after we left that Senator
Mansfield's study group issued a warning that the Viet Nam struggle was becoming
an `American War, that cannot be justified by present U.S. security interests in
the area.' Why, the godforsaken place was costing us a whole four hundred
million dollars a year!
  "Of course, General O'Donnell replied the next day that all those combat
pilots among the `advisers' were there to train the Viet Namese, not to take
part in the war themselves.
  "Lot happened since then, hasn't it?
  "How about another area, my friends? In November of 1962, Dean Munro of
Harvard University warned undergraduates against use of `the simulant L.S.D.
that depresses the mind,' and censured Professors Alpert and Leary for promoting
its use. Dr. Leary replied that hysteria could only hamper research, and pointed
to the absence of any evidence that the drug was harmful.
  "In California, meanwhile, authorities were sounding a similar warning note
concerning a newly-discovered drug which was beginning to appear on the streets.
It was called Methedrine.
  "The New American Church was still fighting unsuccessfully for the right to
continue using peyote in its religious ceremonies, a practice which predated
white settlement of America. Harry Anslinger had just retired as head of the
Federal Narcotics Agency, and there was some talk of controlling the sale of
airplane glue to those under eighteen.
  "Incidentally, while Leary and Alpert (who I understand calls himself Ram Dass
lately) found little difficulty in preserving their academic autonomy, others
were not so lucky. Professor Koch was fired from Illinois University for daring
to suggest in print that premarital sexual relations should in some cases be
condoned. By the time Mary and I got on the boat, the efforts of the American
University Professors' Association to have him reinstated had been entirely
fruitless. A month after we left, the Illinois Supreme Court declined to
intervene. Whatever Masters and Johnson were doing, they weren't talking about
it. The sexual revolution was still being vigorously, and apparently
successfully, ignored.
  "Hard to remember back ten years, isn't it? How about the space race? The
latest news I've heard puts us quite a few moon landings and space probes ahead
of the Russians sians, and most people I've spoken to seem to assume it was
always that way. America has felt pretty cocky about the Big Deep for quite a
while now. Did you know that by February of 1963, the Russian Vostok series had
racked up 130 orbits, a total of 192 hours in space, while the U.S. had a total
of 12 orbits and 20 hours? A couple of years earlier, President Kennedy-remember
him?-had publicly committed us to putting a man on the moon in the next decade,
and he was widely pronounced deranged. Eight years later, Armstrong took the
first lunar walk, and the nation yawned. Oh, you people are so damned blasΘ
about it all!
  "I could go on for hours. When I dropped out, assassination had not yet become
commonplace; J.F.K. had not yet been canonized, and R.F.K. was just arguing his
first case in any court, as Attorney General of the United States. Cinerama was
just getting started, hailed as the wave of the future, and the New York World's
Fair had not yet opened. Two months after we left, Cleopatra premiered, and
Twentieth Century-Fox stock dropped two dollars a share--"
  Hauptman broke off, began to laugh hysterically. Callahan reached across the
bar and gripped his shoulder with a hand like a steak, but the minister shook
his head.
  "I'm all right," he managed, choking with laughter. "It's just that I haven't
told you the funniest joke of all. Nearly killed me at the time, and I didn't
dare break up.
  "You see, when I was finally released, they brought me directly to Washington,
where some very cheerless men wanted to ask me a number of questions and help me
memorize what had officially happened. But first they decided to compensate me
for my troubles with the thrill of a lifetime. I was conveyed before the
President of the United States for a hearty handclasp, and I thought I was going
to faint from holding in the laughter.
  "I hadn't thought to ask who the President was, you see. It didn't seem
especially important, after all I'd been through, and I didn't expect I'd
recognize the name. But when Richard Nixon held out his hand, I thought I'd die.
  "--You see, three months before I left, Nixon lost the race for governor of
California, and assured the press with tears in his eyes that they wouldn't have
Dick Nixon to kick around any more . . ."
  This time the whole place broke up, and Doc Webster almost lost his tonsils
trying to whoop and swallow at the same time. Fast Eddie tried to swing into
"Don't Make Promises You Can't Keep," but he was laughing so hard he couldn't
find the keys, and a barrage of glasses hit the fireplace from all around the
room.
  Which was fine for catharsis. But as the laughter trailed off we realized that
this catharsis was not enough for Tom Hauptman. As his impassioned words sank in
it began to dawn on all of us that we had adapted to an awful lot in ten years,
and in some crazy way this confrontation with a man who was forced to try and
swallow a whole new world in one gulp seemed to drive home to all of us just how
imperfectly we had adapted, ourselves.
  "You know," Long-Drink drawled in the sudden silence, "the little man has a
point. Been a lot goin' on lately."
  "It occurs to me," Tommy Janssen said softly, "that ten years ago I'd never
heard the word heroin," and he gulped at his beer.
  "Ten years ago," Doc Webster mused, "I thought that heart transplants were the
province of science-fiction writers. "
  "Ten years ago," Slippery Joe breathed wistfully, "I was single."
  I was thinking that ten years ago, I wore a crewcut and listened to Jerry Lee
Lewis and Fats Domino. "Christ," I said, as the impossible burst over me.
"Nobody'd ever heard of the Beatles in 1963!" The whole electric sound, the
respectability of rock and its permeation of all other forms of pop music, had
taken place while Hauptman was rotting in a cell, listening to his fingernails
growing. What must the music of today sound like to him? Jim McGuinn of the
Byrds had pointed out in the late Sixties that the Beatles had signaled a change
in the very sound of music. He compared pre-Beatles music to the bass roar of a
propellor plane, and the ensuing post-Beatles rock to the metallic whine of a
jet engine. From what I hear on the radio, it seems that we're already up to the
transonic shrieking of a rocket exhaust, and Hauptman was getting it all at
once. From Paul Anka to Alice Cooper in one jump! Why, the sartorial and
tonsorial changes alone were enough to boggle the mind.
  We all stared at him, thinking we understood. But he looked around at us and
shook his head, and took another drink.
  "No," he said. "You still don't understand. What you are all just beginning to
see is what I would, if I were a science-fiction writer, call the Time
Traveler's Dilemma: future shock, I believe they're calling it now. But my
problem is the Time Traveler's Second Dilemma: transplant shock.
  "You see, you're all time-travelers, too, traveling through time at a rate of
one second per second. In the past few minutes, you've all been made acutely
aware of just how much time you've passed through in the last ten years, and
it's made you think.
  "But I've traveled ten years all at once, and I don't have your advantages.
Strange as this particular time is to you, you have roots woven into its fabric,
you have a place in it however tenuous, and most important of all, you have a
purpose.
  "Don't you understand? I was a minister.
  "I was charged with responsibility for the spiritual development of other
human beings. I was trained to help them live moral lives, to make right choices
in difficult decisions, and to comfort them when they needed comfort. And now I
don't even begin to grasp their problems, let alone the new tools that people
like me have been jury-rigging over the past ten years to help them. Why, I went
to a fellow cleric for advice, and he offered me a marijuana cigarette! I called
an old acquaintance of mine, a Catholic priest, and his wife answered the phone;
I told her I had a wrong number and hung up. This whole Watergate Affair is no
revelation to anyone who was in Pasala in 1963; it's been a long time since I
believed Uncle Sam was a virgin. But I used to be in the minority.
  "Gentlemen, how can I function as a minister when I don't even begin to
comprehend one single one of the moral issues of the day? When I can't, because
I haven't lived through the events that gave them birth?"
  He finished off his gin, left the glass on the table and began tracing designs
in the moisture it had left there.
  "I've looked for other work. I've looked for other work for nearly six months
now. Are any of you here out of work?"
  Which was a shame, him saying that, because it caused me to pitch a perfectly
good glass of Bushmill's into the fireplace.
  Hauptman nodded, and turned to the red-haired mountain behind the bar.
  "And that, Mr. Callahan, " he said quietly, "is the long and short of why you
find me in your establishment with a pistol I bought in an alleyway from a young
man with more hair than Mary used to have. I simply didn't know what else to
do."
  He looked around at all of us.
  "And now that didn't work either. So there's only one thing left I can do." He
heaved a great sigh, and his shoulders twitched. "I wonder if I'll get to see
Mary again?"
  Now, we're a reasonably bright bunch at Callahan's (with some notable
exceptions), and nobody in the room figured that the one thing Hauptman had left
to do was start up a chain-letter. But at the same time, we're a humane bunch,
with a fanatical concern for individual liberty, and so we couldn't do any of
the conventional things, like try to talk him out of it, or call the police, or
have him fitted for the jacket that's all sleeves. Truth to tell, maybe one or
two of us agreed with him that he had no alternative. We were pretty shaken by
his story, is all I can say in our defense.
  Because we just sat there, and stared at him, and felt helpless, and the
silence became a tangible thing that throbbed in your temples and made your eyes
sting.
  And then Callahan cleared his throat.
  "To be or not to be," he declaimed in a voice like a foghorn. "Is that the
question?"

  Like I said, we're a bright bunch, but it took us a second. By the time I got
it, Callahan had already lumbered out from behind the bar, swept a pitcher and
three glasses to the floor, and wrapped the tablecloth around him like a toga.
Doc Webster was grinning openly.
  "Listen, ya goddam fathead," Callahan declaimed in the hokey, stentorian tones
of a Shakespearean ham, " 'tis damn well nobler to suffer the slings and arrows
of outrageous fortune, than to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by
opposing, let 'em lick ya. Nay, fuck that . . ."His eyes rolled, his huge hands
sawed the air as he postured and orated.
  Hauptman stared blankly, his mouth open.
  Doc Webster heaved himself up onto a chair, harummphed noisily and struck a
pose.
  "Do not go gentle into that good night," he began passionately.
  Suddenly Callahan's Place became a madhouse, something like a theater might be
if actors "tuned-up" as cacaphonously as do orchestras. Everyone suddenly became
the Ghost of Barrymore, or thought he had, and the air filled with praises of
life and courage delivered in the most impassioned histrionic manner. I unpacked
my old guitar and joined Fast Eddie in a rousing chorus of "Pack Up Your
Sorrows," and I guess among us all we made a hell of a racket.
  "All right, all right," Callahan bellowed after a few minutes of pandemonium.
"I reckon that ought to do, gents. I think we took the Oscar."
  He turned to Hauptman, and tossed the tablecloth on the floor.
  "Well, Reverend," he growled. "Can you top that performance?"
  The little minister looked at him for a long spell, and then he began to laugh
and laugh. It was a different kind of laugh than we'd heard from him before: it
had no ragged, edges and no despair in it. It was a full, deep belly-laugh, and
instead of grating on our nerves like a knife on piano wire it made us feel warm
and proud and relieved. Kind of a tribute to our act.
  "Gentlemen," he said finally, clapping his hands feebly, still chuckling, "I
concede. I've been out-acted fair and square; I wouldn't try to compete with a
performance like that."
  Then all at once he sobered, and looked at all of us. "I . . . I didn't know
people like you existed in this world. I . . . I think that I can make it now.
I'll find some kind of work. It's just that . . . well . . . if somebody else
knows how tough it is, then it's all right." The corners of his mouth, lifting
in a happy smile, met a flood of tears on their way down. "Thank you, my
friends. Thank you."
  "Any time," said Callahan, and meant it.
  And the door banged inevitably open, and we spun around to see a young black
kid, chest heaving, framed in the doorway with a .38 Police Positive in his
hand.
  "Now everybody be quiet, an' nobody gonna get hurt," he said shrilly, and
stepped inside.
  Callahan seemed to swell around the shoulders, but he didn't move. Everybody
was frozen, thinking for the second time that night that we should have been
expecting it, and of all of us only Hauptman refused to be numbed by shock any
more, only Hauptman kept his head, and only Hauptman remembered.
  It all happened very quickly then, as it had to happen. Callahan's shotgun was
behind the bar, out of reach, and Fast Eddie had been caught with both hands in
sight. The minister caught Doc Webster's eye, and they exchanged a meaningful
glance across the room that I didn't understand.
  And then the Doc cleared his throat. "Excuse me, young man," he began, and the
black kid turned to tell him to shut up, and behind him Hauptman sprang from his
chair headlong across the room and headfirst toward the fireplace.
  He landed on his stomach, and his hands plowed straight into the welter of
broken glass. As he wrenched over on his back, his right hand came around with
that big .45 in it, and the kid was still turning to see what that noise behind
him was.
  They froze that way for a long moment, Hauptman sprawled in the fireplace, the
kid by the bar, and two gun-muzzles stared unblinking across the room at each
other. Then Callahan spoke.
  "You'll hurt him with a .38 son, but he'll kill you with a .45."
  The kid froze, his eyes darting around the room, then flung his gun from him
and bolted for the door with a noise like a cross between a sneeze and a sob.
Nobody got in his way. '
  And then Callahan spoke up again. "You see, Tom," he said conversationally,
"moral issues never change. Only social ones."

  One thing I'll say for the boys at Callahan's: they can keep a straight face.
Nobody cracked a smile as Callahan fed the cops a perfectly hilarious yarn about
how the minister had disarmed a thief with a revolver he had only that afternoon
taken from a troubled young parishioner. Some of us had even argued against
involving the police at all, on general principles-I was one of them-but
Callahan insisted that he didn't want any guns in his joint, and nobody else
really wanted them either.
  But when I was proudest of the boys was when the police asked for a
description of the thief. None of us had given any thought to that, but Doc
Webster was right in there, his dragon-in-the-shower voice drowning out all
others.
  "Description?" he boomed. "Hell, nobody was ever easier to describe. The guy
was six-four with a hook-nose, blonde hair, blue eyes, a scar from his right ear
to his chin and he had one leg."
  And not one of us so much as blinked as the cop dutifully wrote that down.
  Perhaps that kid would have another chance.
  Tom Hauptman, however, didn't come off so well in the aplomb department. As
one of the cops was phoning in, Long-Drink called out, "Hey-Tom. One thing I
don't understand. That cannon you had was in the fireplace for a good hour or
so, and that hearth is plenty warm even when the fire's been out a while. How
the hell come none of the cartridges went off?"
  The minister looked puzzled. "Why, I have no idea. Do you suppose that . . .?"
  But the second cop was making strangling sounds and waving the .45. At last he
found his voice. "You mean you didn't know?"
  We looked at him.
  He tossed the gun- to Callahan, who one-handed it easily, then suddenly looked
startled. He hefted the gun, and his jaw dropped.
  "There's no clip in this gun," he said faintly. "The damned thing's unloaded."
  And Tom Hauptman fainted dead away.

  By the time we recovered from that one, Callahan had decided that Doc and Noah
and I were Punday Night Champions, and we were helping ourselves to just one
more free drink with Tom Hauptman when Doc came up with an idea.
  "Say, Mike," he called out. "Don't you think a bunch of savvy galoots like us
could find Tom here some kind of job?"
  "Well, I'll tell you, Doc," said Callahan, scratching his neck, "I've been
givin' that some thought." He lit a cigar and regarded the minister with a
professional eye. "Tom, do you know anything about tending bar?"
  "Huh? Why, yes I do. I tended bar for a couple of summers before I entered the
ministry."
  "Well," Callahan drawled, "I ain't getting any younger. This all day and all
night stuff is okay for someone your age, but I'm pushing fifty. Why I hit a man
last week, and he got up on me. I've been meaning to get myself a little part-
time help, sorta distribute the load a little. And I'd be right honored to have
a man of God serve my booze."
  A murmur of shock ran through the bar, and expression of awe at the honor
being accorded to Tom Hauptman. He looked around, having the sense to see that
it was up to us as much as it was to Callahan.
  "Why the hell not?" roared Long-Drink and the Doc together, and the minister
began to cry.
  "Mr. Callahan," he said, "I'd be proud to help you run this bar."
  About that point a rousing cheer went up, and about two dozen glasses met
above the newly-relit blaze in the fireplace. Toasts got proposed all at once,
and a firecracker went off somewhere in the back of the room. The minister was
lifted up onto a couple or three shoulders, and the most godawful alleycat off-
key chorus you ever heard assured him that he was indeed a Jolly Good Fellow.
  "This calls for another drink," Callahan decreed. "What'll it be, Tom?"
  "Well," the minister said diffidently, "I've had an awful lot of gin, and I
really haven't gotten back into training yet. I think I'd better just have a
Horse's Ass."
  "Reverend," said Callahan, vastly chagrined, "whatever it is, you're gonna get
it on the house. 'Cause I never heard of it."
  All around the room conversations chopped off in midsentence as the news was
assimilated. The last time in my memory when Callahan got taken for a drink was
in 1968, when some joker in a pork-pie hat asked for a Mother Superior. Turned
out to be a martini with a prune in it, and Callahan by God went out and bought
a prune.
  Hauptman blinked at the commotion he was causing, and finally managed, "Well,
it, uh, won't set you back very much. It's just a ginger ale with a cherry in
it." He paused, apparently embarrassed, and continued just a shade too
diffidently, "You see, they call it that be-"
  "-CAUSE ANYONE WHO'D ORDER ONE IS A HORSE'S ASS!" chorused a dozen voices with
him, and a shower of peanuts hit him from all over the room. Tommy Janssen
heaved a half-full pitcher at the fireplace, and Fast Eddie snatched it out of
the air with his right hand as his left picked up "You Said It, Not Me" in F
sharp.
  Hauptman accepted his drink from Callahan, and he had it to his lips before he
noticed the remarkably authentic-looking plastic fly which Callahan had
thoughtfully added to the prescription. The explosion was impressive, and I
swear ginger ale came out his ears.
  "Seemed like a likely place to find a fly," said Callahan loudly, and somehow
Fast Eddie managed to heave the pitcher at him without interrupting the song.
Callahan fielded it deftly and took a long drink.
  "That's what I like to see," he boomed, replacing his cigar in his teeth. "A
place that's merry."








                                       3

                            The Centipede's Dilemma

  What happened to Fogerty was a classic example of the centipede's dilemma.
Served him right, of course, and I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or
later. But things could have gone much worse with him if he hadn't been wearing
that silly hat.
  It was this way:
  Fogerty came shuffling in to Callahan's Place for the first time on the night
of the Third Annual Darts Championship,of the Universe, an event by which we
place much store at Callahan's, and I noticed him the moment he walked in. No
great feat; he was a sight to see. He looked like a barrel with legs, and I mean
a big barrel. On its side. On top of this abundance sat a head like a hastily
peeled potato, and on top of the head sat--or rather sprawled--the most
ridiculous hat I'd ever seen. It could have passed for a dead zeppelin, floppy
and disheveled, a villainous yellow in color. From the moment I saw it I
expected it of slide down his face like a disreputable avalanche, but some
mysterious force held it at eyebrow level. I couldn't estimate his age.
  Callahan served him without blinking an eye--I some times suspect that if a
pink gorilla walked into Callahan's, on fire, and ordered a shot, Callahan would
ask if it wanted a chaser. The guy inhalted three fingers of gin in as many
seconds, had Callahan build him another, and strolled on over to the crowd by
the dart board, where Long-Drink McGonnigle and Doc Webster were locked in
mortal combat. I followed along, sensing something zany in the wind.
  Some of us at Callahan's are pretty good with a dart, and consequently the
throwing distance is thirty feet, a span which favors brute strength but
requires accuracy along with it. The board is a three foot circle with a head-
shot of a certain politician (supply your own) on its face, concentric circles
of fifty, fourty, twenty, ten and one point each superimposed over his notorious
features. When I got to where I could see the board Doc Webster had just planted
a dandy high on the right cheek for fourty, and Long-Drink was straining to look
unconcerned.
  "What's the stakes?" the guy with the hat asked me. His voice sounded like a
'54 Chevy with bad valves.
  "Quarts of Scotch," I told him. "The challenger stakes a bottle against the
previous winner's total. Last year the Doc there went home with six cases of
Peter Dawson's." He grunted, watched the Doc notch an ex-presidential ear (you
supplied the same politician, didn't you?), then asked how he could sign up. I
directed him to Fast Eddie, who was taking a night off from the piano to
referee, and kept half an eye on him while I watched the match. He took no part
in the conversational hilarity around him, but watched the combat with a vacuous
stare, rather like a man about to fall asleep before the T. V . It was
reasonably apparent that wit was not his long suit. Doc Webster won the match
handily, and the stein that Long-Drink disconsolately pegged into the big
fireplace joined a mound of broken glass that was mute testimony to the Doc's
prowess. One of my glasses was in that pile.
  About a pound of glass later, Fast Eddie called out, "Dink Fogerty," and the
guy with the hat stood up. The Doc beamed at him like a bear being sociable to a
hive, and offered him the darts.
  They made a quite a pair. If Fogerty was a barrel, the Doc is what they
shipped the barrel in, and it probably rattled a lot. Fogerty took the darts,
rammed them together point-first into a nearby table-top, and stood back
smiling. The Doc blinked, then smiled back and toed the mark. Plucking a dart
from the table-top with an effort, he grinned over his shoulder at Fogerty and
let fly.
  The dart missed the board entirely.
  A gasp went up from the crowd, and the Doc frowned. Fogerty's expression was
unreadable. The champ plucked another dart, wound up and threw again.
  The dart landed in the fireplace' fifteen feet to the left with a noise like
change rattling in a pocket.
  "It curved," the Doc yelped, and some of the crowd guffawed. But from where I
stood I could see that there were four men between Doc Webster and the
fireplace, and I could also see the beginnings of an unpleasant smile on
Fogerty's thick features.
  None of the Doc's remaining shots came close to the target, and he left the
firing line like a disconsolate blimp, shaking his head and looking at his hand.
Fogerty took his place and, without removing that absurd hat, selected a dart.
  Watching his throw I thought for a second the match might turn out a draw. His
wind-up was pitiful, his stance ungainly, and he held the dart too near the
feathers, his other arm stiff at his side. He threw like a girl, and his follow-
through was nonexistent.
  The dart landed right between the eyes with a meaty
  thunk.
  "Winner and new champeen, Dink Fogerty," Fast Eddie hollered over the roar of
the crowd, and Fogerty took a long, triumphant drink from the glass he'd set
down on a nearby table. Fast Eddie informed him that he'd just won thirty-five
bottles of Scotch, and the new champ smiled, turned to face us.
  "Any takers?" he rasped. The '54 Chevy had gotten a valve job. .
  "Sure," said Noah Gonzalez, next on the list. "Be damned if you'll take us for
three dozen bottles with one throw." Fogerty nodded agreeably, retrieved his
dart from the target and toed the mark again. And with the same awkward, off-
balance throw as before, he proceeded to place all six darts in the fifty-
circle.
  By the last one the silence in the room was complete, and Noah's strangled "I
concede," was plainly audible. Fogerty just looked smug and took another big
gulp of his drink, set it down on the same table.
  "Ten dollars says you can't do that again," the Doc exploded, and Fogerty
smiled. Fast Eddie went to fetch him the darts, but as he reached the target . .
.
  "Hold it!" Callahan bellowed, and the room froze. Fogerty turned slowly and
stared at the big redheaded barkeep, an innocent look on his pudding face.
Callahan glared at him, brows like thunderclouds.
  "Whassamatter, chief?" Fogerty asked.
  "Damned if I know," Callahan rumbled, "but I've seen you take at least a dozen
long swallows from that drink you got, and it's still full."
  Every eye in the place went to Fogerty's glass, and sure enough. Not only was
it full, all the glasses near it were emptier than their owners remembered
leaving them, and an angry buzzing began.
  "Wait a minute," Fogerty protested. "My hands've been in plain sight every
minute-all of you saw me. You can't pin nothin' on me."
  "I guess you didn't use your hands, then," Callahan said darkly, and a great
light seemed to dawn on Doc Webster's face.
  "By God," he roared, "a telekinetic! Why you lowdown, no-good . . ."
  Fogerty made a break for the door, but Fast Eddie demonstrated the veracity of
his name with a snappy flying tackle that cut Fogerty down before he covered
five yards. He landed with a crash before Long-Drink McGonnigle, who promptly
sat on him. "Tele-what?" inquired Long-Drink conversationally.
  "Telekinesis," the Doc explained. "Mind over matter. I knew a telekinetic in
the Army who could roll sevens as long as you cared to watch. It's a rare
talent, but it exists. And this bird's got it. Haven't you, Fogerty?"
  Fogerty blustered for awhile, but finally he broke down and admitted it. A lot
of jaws dropped, some bouncing off the floor, and Long-Drink let the guy with
the hat back up, backing away from him. The hat still clung gaudily to his skull
like a homosexual barnacle.
  "You mean you directed dem darts wit' yer mind?" Fast Eddie expostulated.
  "Nah. Not ezzackly. I . . . I make the dart-board want darts. "
  "Huh?"
  "I can't make the darts move. What I do, I project a . . . a state of wanting
darts onto the center of the target, like some kinda magnet, an' the target
attracts 'em for me. I only learned how to do it about a year ago. The hard part
is to hang on to all but one dart."
  "Thought so," growled Callahan from behind the bar. "You make your glass want
gin, too-don't ya?"
  Fogerty nodded. "I make a pretty good buck as a fisherman-my nets want fish."
  It seemed to me that, given his talent, Fogerty was making pretty
unimaginative use of it. Imagine a cancer wanting X-rays. Then again, imagine a
pocket that wants diamonds. I decided it was just as well that his ambitions
were modest.
  "Wait a minute," said the Doc, puzzled. "This `state of wanting darts' you
project. What's it like?"
  And Fogerty, an unimaginative man, pondered that question for the first time
in his life, and the inevitable happened.
  There's an old story about the centipede who was asked how he could coordinate
so many legs at once, and, considering the mechanics of something that had
always been automatic, became so confused that he never managed to walk again.
In just this manner, Fogerty focused his attention on the gift that had always
been second nature to him, created that zone of yearning for the first time in
his head where he could observe it, and . . .
  The whole half-dozen darts ripped free of the target, crossed the room like so
many Sidewinder missiles, and smashed into Fogerty's forehead.
  If he hadn't been wearing that dumb hat, they might have pulped his skull.
Instead they drove him backward, depositing him on his ample fundament, where he
blinked up at us blinking down at him. There was a stunned silence (literally so
on his part) and then a great wave of laughter that grew and swelled and rang,
blowing the cobwebs from the rafters. We laughed till we cried, till our lungs
ached and our stomachs hurt, and Fogerty sat under the avalanche of mirth and
turned red and finally began to giggle himself.
  And like the centipede, like the rajah whose flying carpet would only function
if he did not think of the word "elephant," Fogerty from that day forth never
managed to bring himself to use his bizarre talent again.
  Imagine getting a netfull of mackerel in the eye!








                                       4

                         Two Heads Are Better Than One

  As usual, it was a pretty merry night at Callahan's when the trouble started.
  I don't want to give the impression that every time us Callahan's regulars
(Callahanians?) get to feeling good, there's drama around the corner. The reason
it seems that way is probably that, barring disaster, merriment is the general
rule at Callahan's Place. Most of us have little better to do than get happy in
another's company, and we're not an unimaginative bunch, so we keep ourselves
pretty well amused.
  Being a Wednesday, it was Tall Tales Night (as opposed to Monday, the Fireside
Fill-More singalong night, or Tuesday, which we call Punday). Along about
eightthirty, when most of the boys had arrived, and the level of' broken glass
in the fireplace was still rather low, Callahan dried his big meaty hands on his
apron and cleared his throat with a sound like a bulldozer in pain.
  All right gents," he boomed, and conversations were tabled for the night. "We
need a subject. Any suggestions?"
  Nobody spoke up. See, the teller of the tallest tale on a Wednesday night gets
his drinking money refunded, and most folks like to lie low until they've had a
chance to examine the competition and come up with a topper. Not that the first
tale told never wins, but it has to be pretty memorable.
  "All right," Callahan said when no one took the lead. "People, places or
things?"
  "We did t'ings last week," Fast Eddie pointed out from his seat at the
upright. True enough. I'd had everybody beat with a yarn about a beer-nut tree
that used to grow in my backyard until I watered it, when Doc Webster wiped me
out with the saga of a '38 Buick of his that understood spoken English, which
would have been just fine except that it took on a rude highway cop one day and
chased him across six lanes of traffic. Doc claimed to have buried it in his
backyard after it expired from remorse.
  "Ain't nothing says we have to be consistent," Callahan replied. "We can do
things again."
  "Naw," Doc Webster called out. "Let's do people."
  "All right, Doc. What kind? You sound like you got something in mind."
  "Wal . . ." drawled the Doc, and people checked to see that their drinks were
fresh. Those who needed a refill put a dollar bill on the bar and were refueled
by Callahan, who did not need to ask what they wanted.
  ". . . I was just thinking," the Doc continued, his own drink as magically
full as always, "of my Cousin Hobart, the celebrated Man With The Foot-Long
Nose." ("Oh, relatives tonight," someone muttered.) "Hobart's mother died in
childbirth, naturally, and his father succumbed to acute embarrassment shortly
thereafter. As a child Hobart was a born showman, keeping the orphanage in
stitches with incredibly accurate woodpecker imitations, and upon attaining the
age of seven he ran away, to form the nucleus of a traveling road company which
played Pinocchio in every theater in the country, and some in the city too. This
kept him in Kleenex until he outgrew the role, and Cyrano de Bergerac was not
popular at the time, so he struck off on his own and in short order became
something of an old stand-by on the vaudeville circuits, where his ability to
identify the perfume of ladies in the last row and his prowess on the nose-
flutes (as many as five at one time) were a never-failing draw. He might have
lived on in this way for a good many years, for he was a fanatically hygienic
man, and although there were dark rumors about his sex life he was invariably
discreet. The young ladies he visited were for some reason equally reticent,
even with their best girl friends-let alone their husbands.
  "No, it was not a cuckold's knuckles (say three times fast with ice-cubes in
your mouth and you can have this drink) that finally put an end to Cousin
Hobart's career, though it might have been. It was by his own hand that, if I
may put it this way, The Nose was blown. One night he retired early with only a
slight head-cold for company, a yard-long handkerchief knotted to the bedstead
(Hobart went through a lot of laundresses before he found one with a strong
stomach). Thrashing in his sleep, he rolled over and contrived to wedge the end
of his nose in his right ear. Sensing some obstruction, the mighty proboscis
sneezed-and damned near blew his brains out.
  "When his head had stopped ringing, a wide-awake Hobart settled down to some
cold hard thinking. The incident could happen again at any time-the miracle was
that so likely a phenomenon had taken so long to first occur-and next time the
airseal might be better. Only by chance had Hobart survived at all. He reached
his decision reluctantly, but he was a brave man: he followed through. He had
his nose entirely amputated the next day, repudiating all nose-hood and
installing a suction cup in the middle of his glasses. Within a week he had
landed a job with some moonshiners, and he works their still there still."
  The Doc took a long gulp of Peter Dawson's and looked around expectantly,
blinking.
  There was a silence, not much thicker than an elephant's behind.
  "A moonshiner with no nose?" snorted Long-Drink, who keeps a still in his
garage for Sundays when C allahan's is closed. That's ridiculous. How did he
smell?
  "Terrible," the Doc replied placidly. "Those moonshiners are filthy."
  A general groan began, but Callahan held up a hand. "What's the moral, Doc?"
  The Doc blinked again. "No nose is a good nose."
  The sky rained peanuts, and very few missed the Doc, his more-than-ample
upholstery making him an excellent target. Callahan, maddened beyond endurance,
seized up a seltzer bottle and was restrained with some difficulty. Me. I was
worried. This would be hard to beat. I decided against another Bushmill's.
  As I recall, the next one up was Shorty Steinitz, with the story of his uncle
Mort D. Arthur the magician, who walked down the street one day and turned into
a drugstore. But three of us shouted the punchline before he got to it and he
pitched his glass into the fire in disgust, toasting "To weisenheimers" first
and putting his shoulder behind it. Then Tommy Janssen did a creditable job, W.
C. Fields-style and better done than Fields usually is, about a Cousin Alex
Ameche who used to hang from a hook on his kitchen wall and claim to be a
telephone.
  "Obviously a masochist," Tommy intoned nasally. "The amount of abuse that man
absorbed was simply incredible. Folks'd try to humor him, put a dime in his left
ear, pick up his right hand from where it hung in his other ear, dial his nose
in a circle and listen to his hand. But when nothing transpired, they would
inevitably beat him about the head and shoulders until the dime came out of his
mouth, dislocate his arm at the shoulder and leave the premises in a great rage,
cursing prodigiously." This was pretty good stuff, but Tommy's moral, "A
chameleon would do well to imitate objects of a species with which Man is not at
war," had no pun in it, and it seemed the Doc still (the Doc's still) had the
edge. Noah Gonzalez's effort, a one-joke story about an overaggressive uncle who
customarily turned on the T.V. with such ferocity that one day the T.V. turned
on him, was an obvious loser. For some crazy reason as each tale-teller realized
he'd blown it and would thus be paying his night's tab, he invariably pitched
his glass into the fireplace-which costs you your fifty cents change. Callahan
had raked in a fortune in dollar bills by the time I was ready to make my move,
and I decided for the hundredth time that Callahan is no fool, even if he does
have to sweep out that fireplace every morning.
  "All right," I said at last, "it's time to tell you good people about my
Grandfather Stonebender." I decided my country drawl would serve best.
  "You stole that from Heinlein," shouted Noah, the only other SF freak in the
room. "One of the characters in `Lost Legacy" had a Grandfather Stonebender who
could do anything better than anyone. No fair lifting stories."
  "Heinlein must of heard about the real Grandfather Stonebender from my
grandmother," I said with dignity, "and at that he toned him down for a cynical
public. I'm talking about the real Stonebender-the man who built the pyramids,
freed the slaves, invented the prophylactic, cured yaws-that Stonebender."
  "What's yaws?" Callahan asked injudiciously.
  "Why thanks, Mike. I'll have a beer."
  A cheer went up, and Callahan made a ferocious face at me as he drew a draft
Bud. "Not that Grandfather Stonebender's legendary success was surprisin'," I
continued smoothly, "as he was born with three heads. His mother was frightened
by a pawn shop while she was carrying him. Doctor was so startled he swore off
the sauce, and the child raised up such a fuss cryin' three ways at once that
they sent him home early, where he caused his mother some unforseen and
unprecedented difficulties with nursing.
  "Fortunately, he matured quickly and found early employ as the `before,'
`during' and `after' for hair-tonic commercials. Which anyway kept him in hair-
tonic. 'Fore too long, though, his combined I.Q. had brought him the prominence
he deserved in several unrelated fields, and he passed his weekends doing a trio
at the local ginmill for relaxation. His sex-life was something incredible, his
prenatal trauma also having left him with three . . . but that's neither here
nor anywheres I should be talkin' about. Point is, he wasn't no loser like Doc's
cousin Hobart, reduced to geekin' in sideshows for a livin'. Grandfather
Stonebender lived entirely off his wits-had to, to keep himself in neckties.
  "But the same strange fate that provided him with three times the brains and
earning power of a normal man carried with it the seeds of his destruction. He
fell prey to the Committee Syndrome.
  "One day he was debating Free Silver with himself. It was a burnin' issue at
the time, and sad to say, he lost. This made him so mad he punched hisself right
in the mouth, and broke several teeth and a knuckle. Bein' a gentleman, he had
no alternative: he challenged hisself to a duel. Next mornin', acting as second
for both sides so as to keep it in the family, he shot hisself in the right-eye
from pointblank range and died. Papers were full of it at the time. 'Course, if
you read the only daily around you know the papers are still full of it, but
anyhow that's how my Grandfather Stonebender passed on, from the past on."
  Doc Webster's mouth hung open in astonishment, but Callahan again called for
the moral before the general outrage could begin.
  "Just goes to show," I explained, "that three heads are bitter, then none." I
closed my eyes and waited for the holocaust, smugly sure that I wouldn't have to
rely on cheap gags to get free beer any more tonight.
  But the silence was broken not by groans, but by a single groan, and the pain
in that groan was not put-on at all. It came from the open doorway across the
room, and as we all spun around we beheld a sandy-haired young man, shockingly
disheveled, leaning against the doorframe and sobbing. As we watched, frozen, he
slid from its support and fell full-length into Callahan's, landing on his face
with a crash.
  Somehow I knew intuitively that I was not a winner tonight after all.

  For all his bulk, Doc Webster was the first to reach the newcomer. He rolled
him over and began doing doctorthings almost before the rest of us had started
to move, and swung his great black bag in a lethal circle when we crowded too
close. Nobody ignores pain in Callahan's Place, but I guess sometimes we're a
hair too eager to help.
  The kid wasn't much older than Tommy Janssen, maybe twenty-five or so, but you
had to look past the haunted lines of his face to see it. At first glance he
might have been thirty or better, and the expression he'd worn before he passed
out would have looked more at home on a man eighty years old and tired of
living. His eyes were set in close against a hooking nose, and his cheeks were
broad enough to make his mouth seem a shade too small. His lips were the kind of
full that isn't especially sensual, and his frame had just a bit more meat than
it needed. His clothes seemed to have been pulled on in the dark in a hell of a
hurry, fly unzipped, shirt only partially tucked in and buttons mismatched with
holes. Furthermore he was dressed for June-and it was a particularly rainy March
out. He was soaked clear through, hair that looked usually brushed back lying
limply across half his face.
  It looked like he'd gotten to Callahan's just about in time.
  His upper cheeks and temples were livid with purple bruises, and his knuckles
were swollen. Doc Webster searched his hair and found more contusions beneath.
"Looks like somebody gave this poor bastard an awful beating," the Doc
announced.
  The kid's eyes opened. "That was me," he said feebly, swallowing something
foul.
  Someone fed the Doc a glass of straight rye, and he tipped a little of it into
the kid's mouth. It seemed to help. Color came back to his pasty face, and he
tried to get up. The Doc told him to lie quiet, but the kid shook him off and
made it as far as the first table, where he fell into a chair and looked around
groggily. He didn't seem to notice us, but whatever he was expecting to see
scared him silly.
  It wasn't there; he relaxed some. Callahan was already piling corned beef
sandwiches in front of him, and the table happened to have a pitcher of
somebody's beer already on it. Throwing us all a grateful glance, seeing us this
time, he fell on the food like the wolves upon the centerfold, and got outside
of three sandwiches in short order, washing them down with great draughts of
beer.
  When he was done he looked Callahan squarely in the eye. "I don't have any
money to pay you," he said.
  "I didn't figure you did," Callahan agreed. "Go on, eat up. They were getting
stale-these bums here don't eat, far as I can tell. You can owe me." He produced
more food.
  "Thanks. I'm O.K. now. I think. For a while."
  The Doc wanted to get something straight. "You put them bruises on your own
head, young feller?"
  "Jim MacDonald, Doctor. Yes, I put most of those there.
  "I'll bet it felt good when you stopped," Long-Drink said, and immediately
regretted it. I wouldn't want Doc Webster's mass balanced on my toe either.
  "If it did, I might stop more often," MacDonald said with a ghost of a grin,
wincing at the sudden pain in his temples. "Lately it's the most fun I have."
  "Want to talk about it?" Callahan suggested delicately.
  "Sure, why not? You'll never believe me anyhow. No one would." MacDonald's
grin was gone now.
  Callahan drew himself up and registered wounded dignity. "Son, this here is
Tall-Tale Night at my place, and I am prepared to believe anything you can say
with a straight face. Hell, I sometimes believe the Doc over there, and his face
ain't never been straight. Come on, spit it out. Maybe you won't owe me for them
sandwiches and beer after all." The big Irishman put a fresh light on his
everpresent El Ropo and gave the kid a fresh beer to lube his mouth with.
  I looked around; the boys were reverting to their favorite listening postures
as naturally and gracefully as Paladin used to go into that gunfighter's crouch
of his. The hell with the budget, I decided, and slapped another single on the
bar, helping myself to a shot of Irish uisgebagh from the bottle labeled, "Give
Every Man His Dew."

  "It started with my brother Paul," MacDonald began, and I groaned inside. The
perfect shaggy-relative story, shot to hell. "He was ten years older than me,
and he was really only my half-brother. Dad divorced and remarried when Paul was
only three, and that's why I had some hope for a while.
  "You see, Paul was a mutant.
  "Not in any gross physical sense-his body was not malformed in any detectable
way. But he was an Instantaneous Echo.
  "You've probably heard of them, maybe seen one on T. V. or read about 'em in
places like Charles Fort. From the age of twelve Paul could mimic anything you
said-at the instant that you said it. The voice and inflection were different,
but he never stumbled, even when he didn't comprehend the words he was
parroting. No noticeable time-lag-he simply said what you were saying, as you
said it. Sometimes he actually seemed to jump the gun by a hair, and that was
really strange.
  Around the time that I was five, a couple of fellows from Duke came around
with a truck-full of equipment and put Paul through a series of tests. At first
they were quite excited, but as the testing continued their excitement wore off,
and eventually they told my father that Paul was just like all the other Instant
Echoes they'd studied, simply a man who'd learned how to hook his mouth in
parallel with his ears. According to their newest findings, he could not in fact
"jump the gun" as he sometimes seemed to, and while the actual lag was small,
they claimed to be able to measure it. They were unhappy. They'd hoped to prove
that Paul was a telepath.
  "Me, I think he got cagey.
  "Paul had always been an introspective kid and about that time he became
moodier than ever. He seldom left the house, and when he did he was quite likely
to return in tears, claiming a migraine as the cause. My father got our doctor
to prescribe some strong stuff for the migraines, but it didn't seem to help for
too long. Paul, having finished high school at fifteen with excellent grades,
showed no interest whatever in college, a job or girls. He seemed to be the
typical loner, with a bit of hypochondria thrown in.
  "It was about then that the trouble started between my father and mother
(Paul's stepmother, you understand). She felt that Paul had to earn a living
regardless of his headaches, and insisted that he should do so at sideshows and
on nightclub stages, doing his instant echo routine. Dad was having none of it;
he'd made a good deal of money with a good deal of hard work, running a used-car
chain, but he was perfectly willing to indulge a temperamentally infirm son,
rather than set him on a stage to be gawked at by yokels. Mother was . . . not a
very nice person, I'm afraid, and I suspect she thought of the child she had
inherited as an untapped gold mine scant years from his majority. I think she
wanted Paul to make a bundle while she could still get at it; she'd always had
some of the Backstage Mother Complex. How I managed to remain neutral I don't
know. But then, nobody asked my opinion.
  "When Paul was twenty and I was nine and a half, I got my first big scare.
  It was all an accident, for by this time Paul had become uncannily adept at
avoiding people, leaving the house only after dark and never straying far. The
only spot he showed any affection for was the abandoned gravel pit a few miles
from home, a place so gloomy at night that even the area's love-struck teenagers
avoided it. I went there with him two or three times-Paul seemed to accept my
company more often than anyone else's, particularly when I was younger. I didn't
especially care for the place myself-it seemed to me the loneliest place I'd
ever imagined-but I suppose a kid will follow his big brother just about
anywhere he's invited.
  "I think that must be where he met the girl.
  "Mom and Dad were out that night at a P.T.A. meeting or some such. I was
wathing T.V., and if you want to know the truth, I was eating some stolen jelly
beans from the horde Mother used to hide away for herself. So when Paul came
crashing through the front door, I jumped afoot in the air before I even saw
him. When I got downstairs, my first crazy thought was that the migraines had
finally split poor Paulie's head open. He looked . . . well, I guess I've given
you a pretty fair imitation tonight, crashing in here the way I did. His scalp
was laid open around the sides of his head, his forehead was dripping blood in
lines that streamed crazily over his face, his fingers were raw and bleeding,
and his eyes held so much agony that even at nine years old I was more terrified
by them than by anything else.
  "He was babbling incoherently, swinging his arms wildly as if to ward off some
closing demon, and sobbing as though his heart would break. I'd never seen
anyone his age cry like that, you know? I rushed to his side and got him to sit
down, and without thinking about it I went to the bar and mixed him a martini,
just as Mother had taught me to do for her. Little enough of it went down his
throat, but it calmed him some, and the rest at least got some of the blood off
his chin.
  "Of course, when he'd calmed down a little I asked him what had happened. `She
looked so nice, Jimmy," he raved, "so nice. I thought it would be all right. I
mean, I knew it would be bad, but I thought I could take it. She looked so god
damned nice," he shrieked, trembling like a leaf. Finally I got the story out of
him in bits and pieces.
  "It seems my brother was a telepath, after all.
  "A latent telepath, at any rate. From age five to fifteen, his only telepathic
manifestation was his instant-echo bit, and that was done unconsciously.
Subvocalized thoughts must be closest to the surface. During that time he never
received thoughts except those about to be verbalized, never sensed emotions,
and never had any conscious volitional control of his wild talent.
  "But about midway through puberty the picture began to change. His power was
still beyond his control, but it grew. With no warning, he would suddenly find
himself inside someone else's head, with increasing frequency and for increasing
lengths of time. The first time he plugged in was for a split-second only, just
enough to scare him silly, and it didn't reoccur for a couple of months. By now,
he told me, telepathy came to him every week or so, for as much as five or ten
minutes at a time.
  "You must understand, this was nothing like the traditional `telepathy' of
science-fiction stories. It was not the ability to send messages without speech;
Paul had never succeeded in sending anything. Nor was it the ability to receive
such messages. It was, rather, a process of entering the skull of another,
receiving its entire contents and preceiving them as a gestalt.
  "I wonder if you can imagine what that's like? Perhaps, if you've ever thought
of telepathy at all, you've thought of how terrible it would be if someone were
inside your strongest defenses, privy to all your secrets and desires and
shameful memories and frustrated lusts and true feelings. Well you might-but
have you ever considered how terrible it would be to find yourself in someone
else's head, with all that unsought and unwanted knowledge? As long as people
remain locked in their own skulls, they should be-because as most people
intuitively realize, the things that grow and fester in a sealed skull aren't
always tit to share.
  "On top of that, there's the sheer shock of directly confronting a naked ego
as strong as your own, and Paul told me that night that it doesn't help a bit
that the other ego is unaware of you. Most people never get over believing that
they're the center of the Universe, even when they know it isn't so-to have your
nose rubbed in it is unsettling.
  "And so, Paul told me between sobs, he began avoiding people the best he could
as his strange and terrifying power grew in him. Repeated exposure made the
minds of his immediate family tolerable to him, and his telepathy seemed to be
sharply limited by distance, with an effective radius of about a hundred feet or
so. By keeping strangers beyond that limit, Paul could achieve peace of a sort,
the flashes of telepathy bringing him only glimpses of Dad, Mother and myself.
Dad he pitied with an intensity heretofore unknown to that emotion; Mother he
hated beyond all understanding; and me he often found soothing, until I grew up
enough to start having dark secrets of my own. He told me some things about
myself then, that . . . but that's irrelevant.
  "The point is, that night, communing with himself in the moonlit gravel pit,
he met a girl, about his age or a little older. One of the strange things about
out-of-the-way places is that, while you almost never meet anyone there, anyone
you do run into is somehow very liable to be friend-material . At any rate, she
seemed to Paul the nicest and most gentle girl he'd ever seen in his life, not
at all like any other girl he'd ever met. She spoke softly, and only when she
had something to say, and he felt in her a difference that he could not explain
to me in words.
  "Whatever the reason, he let down his guard for once. Instead of running away
or driving her from him with rudeness, as he had learned to do with strangers,
he stayed to talk. Before too many minutes had passed, he began to lose the
usual terrifying fear that his wild talent would strike, began to believe that
it might be all right if it did, began finally to amost hope that it would.
  "And it did.
  "I'm sure she was a lovely girl, but the best of us harbor dark secrets-
sometimes even from ourselves. I don't know specifically what shattered Paul
that night, but I'm sure it was nothing that a bishop on his deathbed would have
felt compelled to confess. Maybe it was nothing more dishonorable than her
lifetime's accumulation of pain, for one's own sorrow may be bearable by its
familiarity and yet staggering to a stranger.
  "In any event, it hit Paul even harder than usual, because he had dared to
hope. Now, if your ears are overloaded, you can stuff your fingers into them; if
your nose is outraged, you can hold it; if your eyes are blinded you can shield
them with your arm. But when you brain itself is overwhelmed by direct input,
all you can do is smash at it with a rock, hoping to drive the other
consciousness away with your own. Sometimes, if you're lucky, it works.
  "For Paul, that night, it hadn't worked.
  "Now you must understand that I was very young. I barely comprehended the
things that Paul was telling me, and if I understood what had happened, I surely
didn't understand why it had hit him as hard as it obviously had. Being able to
read minds had no drawback that my nineyear-old mind could see; I sure didn't
know much about human nature. But I was trying hard to emphatize with my big
brother.
  "That's the only explanation I have for what occurred. Because as Paul reached
the terrible climax of his story, for one split second a shutter opened-and like
a camera plate, my child's mind was imprinted with the total contents of the
mind of my brother.
  "It lasted only that split second, and it faded about as fast as a flashbulb-
burst from two feet away; the impact was over quickly, but the blinding
afterimage seared my brain for many seconds more. I screamed. Several times.
Instantly our positions were reversed, and Paulie was holding me, restraining my
hands. He knew at once what had happened, and the grim set of his jaw said that
he had been expecting it for years now.
  " ''It's over,' he barked, `Jimmy listen tome, it's over. It won't happen
again for months, maybe years.' "
  "It wasn't what he said but the pure joyous relief of how far away his voice
sounded that cut through my child's terror and brought me back from the edge of
hysteria. Why, Paulie was miles away-at least a foot! And there were comforting
walls of bone, cartilage and skin-and blessed empty air!-between us. I calmed
down, and Paulie held me tightly in his arms and in savage whispers explained to
me what I was, what had happened to us, and what I could expect from now on. He
had hoped, he said, that I would be spared because my maternal genes were
different from his; he explained genetics to me, as well as it can be explained
to a nine-year-old, and he told me what a mutant was. He told me how much easier
to bear the telepathic flashes would become, and he told me how much easier they
would not become. He told me how often to expect the onslaught (`flashing,' he
called it), and advised me on how to avoid flashing by avoiding sentient beings
as much as possible. I suppose you could say it was the end of my childhood. I
knew that four years later, when my father haltingly undertook to explain the
Facts of Life to me, they came as a helluvan anticlimax.
  "I suppose that next landmark in the story is the night my father and I found
Paul collapsed across my mother in the living room, the lamp that had crushed
her skull still clenched in his hand, but I don't think I want to talk about
that now. They took Paul away that night, like a sack of sugar, and hauled him
off to King's Park, completely catatonic. He's been that way ever since, and as
far as I can tell he never flashed again. Or anything.
  "That was fourteen years ago."

  Callahan had been refilling his glass as he talked, but MacDonald spilled this
one over half the table. He drank the rest as fast as it could pour and shut up.
  "I get it," Fast Eddie said after a while. "Yer afraid de same t'ing is gonna
happen to you."
  "Jesus," Doc Webster said in an undertone behind me, "lie's just about due." I
did some rapid mental calculation, and turned pale.
  "No, Eddie," I said aloud. "Jim's overdue. Unless ." I let it trail off.
  MacDonald grinned hideously, shook his head. "No, friend, I haven't killed
anyone yet . . . though I wouldn't care to make any predictions for tomorrow.
No, my pattern didn't follow Paul's after all. Not precisely, that is. For one
thing, I never was an instant echo.
  "I waited all through adolescence for the next flash, and when it hadn't come
by the time I graduated high school I dared to begin to hope that I was
different. By sophomore year of college, I'd shoved the fear back into the far
corners of my mind, and convinced myself that my one fleeting experience had
been a freak, perhaps Paul sending instead of receiving for once.
  "In Junior year it hit again, in the middle of a party. I was paralyzed. There
were twenty-one people there, and for one awful second I was sure my head would
burst from overcrowding. I learned more about human nature that night than I had
in the previous twenty years, and I very nearly died. I passed out eventually,
but not before I'd gained an undeserved reputation as an acid-head, and lost my
girlfriend.
  "From that point on, they started coming again and again. The next flash was
six months later, the next four and a half, then five, then three, then I
stopped keeping track. Right now I'd guess they hit every day or so, but I'm not
sure. I can't tell you an awful lot about the time between them." His head
dropped.
  "Why do you suppose your pattern was different from your brother's, Jim?" Doc
Webster asked.
  "I'm not sure," MacDonald repeated without looking up. "Maybe the different
heredity, maybe random chance."
  "Perhaps," I put in, "it was getting your first jolt so much younger than Paul
did. Maybe the trauma hit you so young you hadn't come to accept limits on your
mind yet, and your subconscious whipped up some kind of defense that lasted as
long as the trauma did."
  "Maybe so," MacDonald said, glancing up at me with hopeless eyes. "But if it
did, it's forgotten how to do it again. And my conscious doesn't know the
trick." He giggled. "I haven't even improved on Paul's trick with the rock." The
giggle dissolved into hysterical laughter, the table danced, and his glass
shattered on the floor.
  Callahan's broad hand caught him open-palm across the cheek, rocking him in
his chair. His laughter cut off, and his shoulders slumped for a second. Then he
sat up very straight and stuck his hand out soberly. Callahan shook it gravely
and produced a full glass of beer from nowhere; MacDonald took a grateful sip.
  "I suppose I should say, `Thank you, I needed that,' Mister . . . uh . . ."
  Callahan told him his name.
  ". . . Mr. Callahan, but to tell you the truth I almost think I'd rather do it
myself." He looked around at the rest of us and his face went all to pieces and
he buried his head in his arms. "Oh, Jesus!"
  "Listen, Jim," Tommy Janssen spoke up quickly, "what the hell did you do after
that party? I mean, dig, you couldn't stay in school, right? Too many people,
flip you right out. What did you do, go home and become a loner like Paul?"
  MacDonald spoke listlessly. "I tried, brother, I tried. I .went home and told
my father everything-why his second wife had died, and what Paul was, and what I
was -and that night he got up to get a drink and water and dropped dead in the
bathroom.
  "Thank God I didn't flash that.
  "I got out fast after that-I got a flash of the man who ran the funeral home
that almost did make me a murderer. So I took off, and got myself the only job I
was suited for. "
  "Lighthouse?" Chuck Samms guessed.
  "hope. No openings; there almost never are. But the Forestry Service can
always use fire-lookouts who don't mind isolation. Miles from anybody in a well-
stocked cabin with nothing to do but watch the forest spread out below you. I
even got lucky; the area I drew averaged thirty-five days of rain every summer,
so I got to sleep late a lot. On hot days in Oregon you get to stand a twelve-
hour watch.
  "God, it was peaceful." He was talking freely now. "I think I got a flash from
a bear once, but it must have been at the extreme limit of my range. Then one
day I flashed a bluejay as it sailed about six feet over my head, and that was .
. . just beautiful!" He shivered. "Almost worth the rest of it."
  "What brings you this way?" Callahan wanted to know.
  "What else? The expected: a forest fire in my zone. Called it in fast, and
then got too close to a firefighter who was trapped by a widowmaker and roasting
slowly. My boss figured me for an epileptic and fired me as gently as he could.
I didn't argue the point. I had a little money saved up. I came back east."
  "Why?" Callahan asked.
  "To see Paul. To visit him."
  "Have you?"
  "No, damn it, I couldn't get near the place. I flew right into MacArthur,
doped up with sleeping pills so I'd be asleep when we went over New York City,
and rented a car with the last of my bankroll when I landed. I intended to drive
on through and hope for the best, but halfway out of Islip I flashed a.guy in
the next lane. He . . . he was a drug dealer. Heroin and cocaine."
  Tommy Janssen's face went hard as a rock, and he gripped his beermug like a
bludgeon.
  "I was very, very lucky," MacDonald continued. "Any crash you walk away from
is a good one, and that's what I did: just left the wreck married to a tree,
climbed up the embankment and walked away. I walked for hours, and not too long
ago the supervisor of this town we're in drove past me in his big limousine and
I flashed him. The next thing I knew I was in here, talking a blue streak. Hey,
how come you guys believe all this?"
  We looked around at each other, shrugged. "Dis here is Callahan's Place," Fast
Eddie tried to explain, and somehow MacDonald seemed to understand.
  "Anyway," he sent on, "that's the whole story. King's Park is a long way from
here, and frankly, gentlemen, I don't think I can make it any further. Any
suggestions?"

  There was a long silence.
  Fast Eddie opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again and left it that way.
Shorty scratched where it itched. Doc Webster sipped thoughtfully at his drink.
I racked my brains.
  Callahan spoke. "One."
  MacDonald started, turned to face him. He looked Callahan up and down from his
thinning red hair to his outsized brogans, and sat up a little straighter. "I
would very much like to hear it, Mr. Callahan," he said respectfully.
  "Contact Paul from here," Callahan said flatly.
  MacDonald shook his head violently. "I can't. I told you, this thing can't be
controlled, dammit."
  "You said `no' a little too loud, old son," Callahan grinned. "Maybe you can't
do it-but you think you can."
  MacDonald shook his head again. "No. I don't want to flash him. Don't you
understand? He's catatonic. A vegetable. I just want to see him, to try and
speak with him."
  "Why use words?" I asked.
  "They're less dangerous, damn you," he snapped. "If you fail with words you
can say to yourself, `Gee, that's sad,' and go do something else."
  "What else?" Doc asked. "What did you plan to do after you saw Paul?"
  "I . . . I don't know."
  "Well, then."
  "Look, what could it possibly accomplish?" MacDonald barked.
  "Maybe a lot," Callahan said quietly. "Here's how I figure: Paul found a way
to block the flashes out-a defense. But he found it at the end of his rope-so he
just threw it up and slapped ferrocement over it, and he's been huddling inside
it ever since." Callahan took the cigar out of his mouth and rubbed his granite
jaw. "Now you're in sorry shape, but old son I don't judge you to be at the end
of your rope yet. Paul was continuously telepathic by the time he killed his
stepmother, wasn't he?"
  "Yes, I believe he was," MacDonald admitted. He was thinking hard.
  "Well, there you are. If you can reach him, remind him of what it's like to be
hooked into reality without flashing, maybe you can talk him into coming out
from behind that shield, and using it only when he needs it. In return, maybe he
can teach you how to build the shield.
  "What do you say, son?"
  MacDonald grimaced. "I can't flash at will. The distance is too great. Our
maximum fields of sensitivity don't reach each other by several miles. I'm not
due to flash again for at least a day or two, and Paul . . . doesn't flash any
more."
  "All right," Callahan agreed. "Those are the reasons why it can't possibly
work. Now, why don't you try it?"
  "Because I'm afraid, dammit!"
  Doc Webster spoke up softly. "No reason to fret, son. We'll keep you from
hurting yourself."
  MacDonald looked around at us, started to speak and paused. His eyes were
terrible to see.
  "That's not what scares me," he admitted at last, in a voice like a murdered
hope. "What scares me is that I may establish contact with my brother and not be
able to kill myself."
  Callahan lumbered around behind the bar, brought his shotgun from beneath it
and laid it on the bar-top.
  "Son," he said firmly, "I don't like violence in my joint. And suicide usually
strikes me as a coward's solution. But if you need to die, I'll see that you
do."
  A couple of jaws dropped, but nobody objected.
  Except MacDonald. "What about the police?"
  "That's my problem, burglar."
  MacDonald's eyes seemed to see a far place, and I hope to God I never see it
myself. I suppose he was examining his guts. The suspense hung in the air like
the electric calm before a cyclone, and nobody made a sound.
  After a long, timeless moment he nodded faintly. "All right. I'll try, Mr.
Callahan."
  We relaxed a trifle in our chairs, and then tensed right back up again.
Callahan put out his cigar and laid a hand on the shotgun, unobtrusively waving
Chuck and Noah out of the line of fire.
  MacDonald sat bolt upright, put his hands over his ears. He opened his eyes
real wide, looked around one last time, and closed them tight. His brow knotted
up.
  Now, I don't know quite how to explain just what happened next, because it
doesn't seem to jibe with what Jim MacDonald had told us. But I figure that if
he was a telepath, some of us at Callahan's are pretty fair empaths. Maybe he
was tapping us himself; maybe not. All I know for sure is that all at once the
lights were gone and I wasn't in the bar any more, and Callahan and the Doc and
Fast Eddie and Tommy and Long-Drink and Noah and Shorty and Chuck and I were all
crowded together somehow, touching, like we were rubbing shoulders in back of a
truck we had to push-start. We didn't waste time wondering, we put our backs
into it.
  That's crazy, there was no truck, not even a hallucinatory one, but I guess it
describes the sort of thing we did as well as words can. We . . . pushed, and
just like with a truck there came a time when the thing we were pushing gave a
hell of a shudder and took off, leaving us gasping far behind.
  The thing we were pushing was Jim MacDonald.

  The lights came back and the familiar sights of Callahan's Place came back and
I was alone in my skin again, looking around at Callahan and the rest of the
boys and realizing with surprise that I hadn't been the least bit scared. They
were looking around too, and it was a few seconds before we saw MacDonald.
  He was sitting rigid in his chair, trembling like a man with a killing fever.
Doc Webster started for him like an overweight white corpuscle but pulled up
short and looked helpless. The air around MacDonald's head seemed to shimmer
like the air over a campfire, and we heard his teeth gnashing.
  Then, not suddenly but gradually, almost imperceptibly at first, he began to
relax. Muscles unknotted, joints unlocked, his face began to soften. He . . . I
don't know how to say this either. He wore his face differently. The MacDonald
he loosened into was changed, somehow older.
  He had won.
  "Our deepest thanks, gentlemen," he said in a more resonant voice than he had
used before. "I think we'll be all right from here on."
  "What will you do now?" Callahan rapped, and I wondered at the cold steel in
his voice.
  MacDonald considered for a moment. "We're not really sure," he decided
finally, "but whatever we do, we hope we can find a way to help other people the
way you've helped us. There must be lots of things we can do. Maybe we'll finish
school and become a psychiatrist like I planned once. Imagine-a telepathic
headshrinker."
  Callahan's hand came away from the trigger of the scattergun for the first
time; Jim/Paul didn't catch it, but I did. I was rather glad to know that the
intentions of the world's only two telepaths were benign, myself.
  Callahan looked puzzled for a second, then his face split into a huge grin.
"Say, can I offer you fellas a drink?"
  And MacDonald's new voice echoed him perfectly.
  "Don't mind if we do," he added, laughing, and got up to take a chair at the
bar.
  "Hey," Fast Eddie called out, ever one to remember the important details,
"wait a minute. De cops'll be lookin' for youse fer leavin' dat accident.
Whaddya gonna tell 'em? Fer dat matter, how d'ya get yer udder body outa King's
Park?"
  "Oh, I dunno," Callahan mused, putting a careful double-shot of Chivas Regal
in front of MacDonald. "It seems to me a telepath could dodge him a lot of cops.
Or a lot of witchdoctors. Wouldn't you say, gents?"
  "We guess so," MacDonald allowed, and drank up.
  And they were right. All three of them.

  I haven't heard much from either of the MacDonald brothers yet, but then it
hasn't been that long, and I'm sure they've both got a lot of thinking and
catching up to do. I wonder if either of them is thinking of having kids. One
way or another, I expect to be hearing good things of them, really good things,
any day now.
  It figures. I mean, two heads are better than one.








                                       5

                        The Law of Conservation of Pain

  There's a curious kind of inevitability to the way things happen at
Callahan's. Not that we wouldn't have managed to help The Meddler out some way
or other even if it had been, say, Thursday night that he came to us. But since
it was Monday night, I finally got to learn what it is that "heavy-metal" rock
music is good for.
  After ten years as a musician, it was about time I found out.

  Monday night is Fill-More Night at Callahan's Place, the night Fast Eddie and
I do our weekly set on piano and guitar. But don't let the name mislead you into
thinking we play the kind of ear-splitting music the Fillmore East was famous
for. Although I do play an electric axe (a Country Gent Six) and have an
amplifier factoryguaranteed to shatter glass, these are the only remnants of a
very brief flirtation with heavy-metal that occurred in much hungrier times than
these. I don't like loud noises.
  No, the name derives from the curious custom we have at Callahan's of burying
our dead soldiers in the fireplace. You can usually tell how good a night it's
been by how many glasses lay smashed on the hearth, and after one particularly
tasty session Doc Webster nicknamed Eddie and me the Fireside Fill-More. To our
intense disgust, it stuck.
  This particular Monday night, things was loose indeed. Eddie and I had held
off our first set for half an hour to accommodate a couple of the boys who were
playing a sort of pool on the floor with apples and broomsticks, and by the time
Callahan had set up the two immense speakers on either side of the front door,
the joint was pretty merry.
  "What're you gonna play, Jake?" the Doc called out from his ringside seat. I
adjusted the mikestand, turned up my axe just enough to put it on an equal
footing with Fast Eddie's upright, and tossed the ball right back to the Doc .
  "What would you like to hear, Doc?"
  "How about, `There Are Tears In My Ears From Lying On My Back And Crying In
The Evening Over You?' "
  "Naw," drawled Long-Drink from the bar, "I want to hear `He Didn't Like Her
Apartment So He Knocked Her Flat,' " and a few groans were heard.
  Doc Webster rose to the occasion. "Why not play the Butcher Song, Jake?"
  I resigned myself to the inevitable. "The Butcher Song?"
  "Sure," boomed the Doc, and conducting an invisible band, he sang, "Butcher
arms around me honey/hold me tight . . ." Peanuts began to rain on his head.
  Callahan shifted the right speaker a bit, and turned around with his hands on
his hips. "Play the Camera Song, Jake."
  "Hit me, Mike."
  With a voice like a fog-horn undergoing root-canal work, Callahan began, "Lens
get together 'bout half past eight/I'll ring your Bell & Howell . . ." and a
considerable number of glasses hit the fireplace at once. One or two had not
been emptied first; the crackling fire flared high.
  In the brief pause that ensued, Fast Eddie spoke up plaintively.
  "Hey Jake. I got an idea."
  "Be gentle with it," the Doc grinned. "It's in a strange place."
  "What's your idea, Eddie?" I asked.
  "How about if we do de one we been rehoisin' all afternoon?"
  I nodded judiciously, and turned to face the house. "Regulars and gentlemen,"
I announced, "for our first number we would like to do a song we wrote yesterday
in an attempt to define that elusive essence, that shared quality which brings
us all together here at Callahan's Place. In its way it is a song about all of
us.
  "It's called the Drunkard's Song."
  And as Eddie's nimble piano intro cut through the ensuing catcalls, I stoked
up my guitar and sang:

    A swell and wealthy relative of mine had up and died
    And I got a hundred thousand from the will
    So a friend and I decided to convert it into liquid form
    The better our esophagi to fill
    So we started in the city, had a drink in every shitty
    Little ginmill, which is really quite a few
    And a cabbie up in Harlem took us clean across the river
    Into Brooklyn, where he joined us in a brew
    We was weavin' just a trifle as we pulled into Astoria
    At eighty miles an hour in reverse
    But it was nothin' to the weavin' that we did as we was leavin'
    And from time to time it got a little worse
      Well there's nothin' like drinkin' up a windfall
      We was drunker than a monkey with a skinfull
      We wuz so goddam drunk it was sinful
      And I think I ain't sober yet

  As we finished the chorus, Fast Eddie tossed up a cloud of gospel chords that
floated me easily into my solo, a bit of intricate pickin' which I managed to
stumble through with feeling if not precision. When it was Eddie's turn I snuck
a look around and saw that everyone was well into his second drink, and relaxed.
There were smiles all around as I slid into the second verse:

    We was feeling mighty fine as we crossed the city line
    Suckin' whiskey and a-whistlin' at the girls
    But the next saloon we try someone wants to black my eye
    'Cause he doesn't like my brown and shaggy curls
    So then a fist come out of orbit, knocked me clean across the floor
    But I was pretty drunk and didn't even care
    And I was pretty disappointed when the coppers hit the joint
    As I was makin' my rebuttal with a chair
    But the coppers came a cropper 'cause I made it to the crapper
    And departed by a ventilator shaft
    Met my buddies in the alley as they slipped out through the galley
    And we ran and ran and laughed and laughed and laughed
      Yeah there's nothin' like drinkin' up a windfall
      We was drunker than a monkey with a skinful
      We wuz so goddam drunk it was sinful
      And I think I ain't sober yet

  This time Fast Eddie jumped into the gap with a flurry of triplets. I could
tell that he knew where he was going, so I gave him his head. As he unfolded a
tasty statement, I looked around again and saw all-to-wall grins again.
  No, not quite. Tommy Janssen, sitting over by the mixer, was definitely not
smiling. A pot-bellied gent in an overcoat, who I didn't recognize, was leaning
over Tommy's shoulder, whispering something into his ear, and the kid didn't
seem to like it at all. Even as Eddie's solo yanked my attention away again I
saw Tommy turn around and say something to the overcoated man, and when I looked
back the guy was standing at the bar with his nose in a double-something.
  I put it out of my mind; verse three was a-comin'.

    Halfway out of Levittown we got our second wind
    In a joint so down it made you laugh
    So I had another mug, and my buddy had a jug
    And the cabbie had a pitcher and a half
    When we got to Suffolk County we was goin' into overdrive
    The word had spread and crowds began to form
    We drank our way from Jericho on down I10 to Merrick Road
    A-boozin' and a-singin' up a storm
    I lost my buddy and the cabbie in the middle of the Hamptons
    We was drunker than it's possible to be
    But there finally came a time when I just didn't have a dime
    I sat on Montauk Point and wept into the sea

  And everybody in the joint joined in on the final chorus. All except the guy
in the overcoat . . . who was already on his second double-something.

      Yeah there's nothin' like drinkin' up a windfall
      We was drunker than a monkey with a skinfull
      We wuz so goddam drunk it was sinful
        And I think I ain't sober yet!

  A storm of glasses hit the fireplace, and Fast Eddie and I went into our aw-
shucks routine at about the same time. When the cheers and laughter had died
down somewhat, I stepped back up to the mike and a-hemmed.
  "Thank you for your sympathy, genties and ladlemen," I said. "We'll be passing
the eleven-gallon hat directly." I tapped the huge Stetson on my head
significantly and grinned.
  "Well now . . ." I paused. "We only know two songs, and that was one of them,
so we're real glad you liked it." I stopped again. "What do you think we ought
to play now, Eddie?"
  He sat awhile in thought.
  "How 'bout de udder one?" he asked at last.
  "Right arm," I agreed at once, and hit a G.
  Doc Webster beheaded a new bottle of Peter Dawson's and took a hearty swallow.
  "Okay, folks," I continued. "Here's a medley of our hit: a sprightly number
called, `She Was Only A Telegrapher's Daughter, But She Didit-Ah-Didit.' " I
started to pick the intro, but the sound of glass smashing in the fireplace
distracted me, and I bungled it.
  And in the few seconds before I could take another stab at it, the fellow in
the overcoat burst noisily and explosively into tears.

  Fast Eddie and I were among the first to join the circle that formed
immediately around the crying, pot-bellied man. I didn't even stop to unplug my
guitar, and if anyone had trouble stepping over the stretched-out telephone cord
they kept it to themselves.
  Paradoxically, after we had rushed to encircle him, nobody said a word. We let
him have his cry, and did our best to silently share it with him. We offered him
only our presence, and our concern.
  In about five minutes, his sobs gave way to grimaces and jerky breathing, and
Callahan handed him a triplesomething. He got outside of half of it at once, and
set the remaining something-and-a-half down on the bar. His face as he looked
around us was not ashamed, as we might have expected; more relieved than
anything else. Although there was still tension in the set of his lantern jaw
and in the squint of his hazel eyes, the know in his gut seemed to have eased
considerably.
  "Thanks," he said quietly. "I . . . I . . ." He stopped, wanting to talk about
it but unable to continue. Then he must have remembered the few toasts he'd seen
earlier in the evening, because he picked up the rest of his drink, walked over
to the chalk line in the middle of the room, drained the glass and announced,
"To meddlers." Then he pegged the glass into the exact geometrical center of the
fireplace.
  "Like me," he added, turning to face us. "I'm a meddler on a grand scale, and
I'm not sure I've got the guts. Or the right."
  "Brother," Callahan said seriously, "you're sure in the right place. All of us
here are veteran meddlers, after a fashion, and we worry considerable about both
them things."
  "Not like this," the Meddler said. "You see, I'm a time-traveler too." He
waited for our reaction.
  "Say," piped up Noah Gonzalez, "it's a shame Tom Hauptman's off tonight: You
two'd have a lot to talk about."
  "Eh?" said the stranger, confused.
  "Sure," Callahan agreed. "Tom's a time-traveler too."
  "But . . . but," the guy sputtered, "but I've got the only unit."
  "Oh, Tom didn't use no fancy equipment," Noah explained.
  "Yeah," agreed Callahan. "Tom did it the hard way. Never mind, friend, it's a
long story. You from the past or the future?"
  "The future," said the time-traveler, puzzled at our

  lack of reaction. I guess we're hard to startle. "That is, the future as it is
at present . . . I mean . . ." He stopped and looked confused.
  "I get it," said Noah, like me a veteran SF fan. "You're from the future, but
you're going to change that future by changing the past, which is our present,
right?"
  The fellow nodded.
  "How's that again?" blinked Doc Webster.
  "I am from the year 1995," said the man in the overcoat with weary patience,
"and I am going to change history in the year 1974. If I succeed, the world I go
back to will be different from the one I left."
  "Better or worse?" asked Callahan.
  "That's the hell of it: I don't know. Oh kark, I might as well tell you the
whole story. Maybe it'll help."
  Callahan set 'em up, and we all got comfortable.

  Her name (said the stranger) was Bobbi Joy, and you couldn't say there'd never
been anyone like her before. Lots of people had been like her. April Lawton, for
instance, was nearly as good a guitarist. Aretha had at times a similar
intensity. Billie Holiday surely bore and was able to communicate much the same
kind of pain. Joni Mitchell and Roberta Flack each in their own way possessed a
comparable technical control and purity of tone. Dory Previn was as dramatic and
poignant a lyricist, and Maria Muldaur projected the same artless grace.
  But you could have rolled them all together and you still wouldn't have Bobbi
Joy, because there was her voice. And it was just plain impossible that such a
voice could be. When a Bobbi Joy song ended, whether on tape or disc or holo or,
rarest of good fortune, live, you found your head shaking in frank disbelief
that a human throat could express such pain, that such pain could be, and that
you could hear such pain and still live.
  Her name was the purest of irony, given to her by an employer in a previous
and more ancient profession, a name she was too cynically indifferent to change
when her first recordings began to sell. I've often wondered what her past
customers must feel when they hear her sing; I'm certain every nameless,
faceless one of them remembers her.
  They surely appreciate as well as anyone the paradox of her name-for while God
seemed to have given her every possible physical advantage in obtaining joy, it
never got any closer to her than her album jackets and the first line of her
driver's license. Although many pairs of lips spoke her name, none ever brought
its reality to her.
  For the scar on her soul was as deep and as livid as the one that ran its
puckered, twisted way from her left cheekbone to her right chin.
  The Woman With The Scar, they called her, and many, seeing only a physical
wound, might have wondered that she did not have it surgically corrected-so easy
a procedure in my time. But she sang, and so we understood, and we cried with
her because neither of her scars would or could ever be erased, and that, I
suppose you'd say, was her genius. She represented the scars across the face of
an entire era; she reminded us that we had made the world in which such scars
could be, and that we-all of us-were as scarred as she. She . . .
  This is absurd. I'm trying to explain sex to a virgin, with a perfectly good
bed handy. Lend an ear, friends, and listen. This holo will tell you more than I
can. God help you.

  The stranger produced a smooth blue sphere about the size of a tennis ball
from one of his pockets, and held it out toward the fireplace. The shimmering of
the air over the crackling fire intensified and became a swirling, then a
dancing, and finally a coalescing. The silence in Callahan's was something you
could have driven rivets into.
  Then the fireplace was gone, and in its place was a young black woman seated
on a rock, a guitar on her lap and starry night sky all around and behind her.
Her face was in shadow, but even as we held our breath the moon came out from
behind a cloud and touched her features. It gave an obsidian sheen to her skin,
a tender softness to a face that God had meant to be beautiful, and made a harsh
shadow-line of the incredibly straight slash that began an inch below her left
eye and yanked sideways and down to open up lips that had been wide already,
likc a jagged black underline below the word "pain." She was black and a woman
and scarred, and as the thought formed in our minds we realized that it was a
redundancy. Her scar was visible externally, was all.
  We were shocked speechless, and in the stillness she lifted her guitar
slightly and began to play, a fast, nagging, worrisome beat, like despairing
Richie Havens, an unresolved and maybe unresolvable chord that was almost all
open string. An E minor sixth, with the C sharp in the bass, a haunting chord
that demanded to become something else, major, or minor, happy or sad,
butsomething. A plain, almost Gregorian riff began from that C sharp but always
returned unsatisfied, trying to break free of that chord but not succeeding.
  And over that primevally disturbing sound, Bobbi Joy spoke, with the
impersonal tones of the narrator behind all art:

  Snow was falling heavily on U.S. 40 as the day drew to a close. This lonely
stretch of highway had seen no other movement all day; and stillness was so
complete that the scrub pines and rolling hills by the roadside may have felt
that the promise given them so long ago had come to pass, that man had finally
gone and left them in peace forever. No snakes had swayed forth from their
retreats that day, no lizards crawled, no wolves padded silently in search of
winter food. All wildlife waited, puzzled, expectant, caught in the feeling of
waiting . . . for what?
  Gradually, without suddenness, each living thing became aware of a curious
stuttering drone to the far east, which became audible too slowly to startle. It
swelled, drew nearer, and small muscles and sinews tensed, then relaxed as the
sound was identified as familiar, harmless.
  A pale green 1960 Dodge, with no more than three cylinders firing, crept
jerkily into view through the shrouds of snow. Wipers blinking clumsily, the
great machine felt its way along the road, its highway song hoarse and
stuttered. With a final roar of mortal agony, it fell silent: wipers ceased
their wiping, pistons ceased driving, lights winked out, and the huge car
coasted gracefully off the road and rolled to a stop with its nose resting on a
snow-laden mesquite.
  Stillness returned to U.S. 40 . . . and still, on either side of it, the
animals waited.

  Even as she finished speaking, the walking bass line with which she was
underpinning her mournful chord returned to that dysharmonic C sharp. Then with
breathtaking ease it slid down two tones to B, became the dominant of a simple E
minor, and as bass, organ and drums came in from nowhere she began to sing:

    Snow fallin' gentle on the windshield
    Sittin' on the side of the road
    Took a ride--my engine died and left me
    Sittin' on the side of the road
    In a little while I'll get out and start a-walkin'
    Probably a town pretty near
    But it just occurs to me that I ain't got no
    More reason to be there than to be here
    But I'll be leavin'
  (sudden key shift)
    Soon as I find me a reason to
    Right now it's nice just to watch the snow
    Coverin' the windshield and windows . . .

  She finished on a plaintive A minor, toppled off it back into that ghostly
mosquito-biting E minor sixth again, and the other instruments fell away,
leaving her guitar alone. Again, she spoke:

  Snow now completely covered the windshield and windoves, forming a white
curtain which hid the interior of the car, and any activity within-if there was
any to be seen. No sound issued from the car, no vibration disturbed the snow on
its doors. The animals were puzzled, but delighted: perhaps a human understood
at last.

  The C sharp walked down to B again, but this time it belonged to a clean,
simple G chord, supported by a steel guitar and the trapping of bluegrass, a
comparatively happy sound that only lasted for the first four lines as that
voice-that voice!-picked up the song again, etching us with its words:

    Don't worry now. I'm goin'
    Any minute now, I'll be goin'
    Leave the car
    --It isn't far to walk now
    Any minute now, I'll be going
    (slowing now, an electric guitar leading into an achingly repeated C-E
minor-A progression that went nowhere
    Soon as I can find a place I want to go
    Soon as I can find a thing l want to do
    Soon as I can find someone I want to know
    Or think of something interesting and new
    (a sudden optimistic jump into the key of F . . .)
    I mean, I could make it easy to the next town
    (twisting crazily into E flat . . .)
    But what am I to do when I get there?
    (inexorably back to C. . .)
    That's what I made this odyssey to find out:
    Two thousand miles and still I just don't care . . .
    (a capalla:)
    Is it worthwhile to go on looking?

  We wanted to cry, wanted to shout, wanted to run forward with a hundred
reasons for living, find some way to heal the hurt in that voice, and no one
made a sound. Alone again with her guitar, Bobbi Joy wove that dysharmonic
tapestry of hurting notes that was already becoming as familiar to us as the
taste that a bad dream always has in the cold morning; and as she began to speak
again, not a muscle flickered in her ebony face, as though her scar was all the
expression she would ever need or be allowed.

  The snow began to drift.
  In a minute--or an hour--the car was half-buried in a heavy white winter coat
of wet snow. The animals were already beginning to forget about the car. It had
not shown movement in so long that they were coming to regard it as part of
their environment--of less interest than the tattered 1892 edition of the Denver
Record pinned under a rock, which at least still fluttered occasionally in the
wind.
  For the memory of the animals is short, and the years are long, and they have
found that very little is worth puzzling over for very long.
  And still, the snow fell . . .

  This time she stayed with the C sharp, built an A chord around it, and was
joined only by harpsichord and bass. There was no ambiguity to this part: a
simple, mournful melody that had no change-ups, no surprises, just the quiet
calm of resignation, if unheeded defeat.

    Sort of friendly here inside the car
    Even though it's gettin' kinda cold
    Haven't stirred, or said a word, in hours
    I believe it's gettin' awful cold
    In the glove compartment, there's a small fask:
    Little Irish whiskey for the soul
    But reachin' out to get it seems a great task
    And anyway, it isn't all that cold
    It might keep me warm
    But it just ain't worth the trouble . . .

  Her shoulders seemed to slump, and-the droning background of her guitar took
on a terrible finality.

  There was no longer a Dodge by the side of U.S. 40; just a drift like many
others, peaceful and horribly cold. A faint illumination began to expose
mysteries of snowsculpture hummocks and valleys of white. But for the swirling
haze, you might have said it was dawn.
  The car was completely hidden from sight-and so, in caves, holes and shelters,
were the animals. But they no longer remembered the car . . . and at least in
their dwellings were some signs of life.

  And with shattering unexpectedness she slammed into E major, driving with
horns and bass and moog and drums in a frenzied hallelujah chorus that dared you
to begin hoping again. Surely that throbbing beat was a heart starting to beat,
surely that energy was purposeful!
  We sat up straighter, and crossed our fingers.

    I've got it!
    There's something that I want to do
    A thing that seems to have some kind of point
    I've got some grass, enclosed in glass
    Here inside my shirt
    Think I'm gonna roll myself a joint
    (the bottom fell out of voice and arrangement, scared away by solemnity and
a trembling echo . . .)
    A complicated operation-might disturb the peace
    But it ought to warm me just as well as drink
    So it's something worth the trouble and it's gonna help me find
    A reason to get out of here
    I think
    (a capella)
    Now where did I put all those Zig-Zags?

  Again that C sharp rang out, shocking return to inevitability, and the droning
guitar cut the rug out from under us. Helpless, not knowing whether the music or
the words frustrated us more, we waited in fearful silence for what had to come
next. And for the last time the expressionless voice spoke:

  Two weeks later, when a road-crew dug out the car, they found inside it the
frozen corpse of a young woman, incredibly tranquil and serene. Between the blue
and rigid lips was the pencil-thin column of ash from a hand-rolled cigarette,
which had burned undisturbed until it had seared the lips and gone out. The
crew-boss silenced his men, radioed a call to the State Police with remarkable
calm . . .
  And then went home and made savage love to his wife.

  And that damned unnerving guitar fell to pieces on the E minor sixth, as
resolved as it was ever going to be.

  The silence persisted for a full minute before anyone so much as thought to
look into his drink for any answers that might be skulking around in there. And
when we did, we found none there, so we tried looking at each other. And when
that failed, we turned as one to regard the stranger who had brought us this
vision. His hand was back at his side, now, and the fireplace was back where it
.belonged, naively attempting to warm a room that had gone as cold as death . .
.
  "That, gentlemen," he said simply, "is Bobbi Joy."
  No one said a word. I saw Doc Webster groping desperately for a wisecrack to
break the spell, and it just wasn't there. The stranger had been right: now that
it was over we could scarcely believe that it had happened, scarcely believe
that we were still alive.
  "Now that you know her," the stranger went on, "you're ready to hear her
story, what made her what she is and what I hope to do about it."

  Bobbi Joy (the Meddler continued) was born Isadora Brickhill in the back seat
of a gypsy cab somewhere in Harlem, in the year 1952. I can see by your scowls,
gentlemen, that I don't have to explain what that means. She didn't even have
Billie Holiday's classic two choices-no one was hiring maids in those days. By
the training and education she received, she was prepared only for the most
basic trade there is: by 1966 little Isadora was an experienced and, if rumor is
to be believed, accomplished whore.
  Even in that most cliched of professions she was an anomaly. She did not
drink, touched no drugs save an occasional social reefer, and never seemed to
project that desperate air of defeat and cynical surrender so characteristic of
her colleagues. She had a fiery fighting spirit that demanded and elicited
respect from all who knew her, and except for physically, no one ever touched
her at all. Madams loved her for her utterly dependable honesty in the split,
the girls loved her for her unflagging courage and willingness to be of help,
and the johns loved her for the completely detached professionalism she brought
to her work.
  Then came the bust.
  Some sort of political mix-up, as the story goes-a payoff missed, an official
inadvertently offended, a particularly well-written expose that demanded token
action. Whatever the reason, Hannah's House was raided in April of 1974 in the
traditional manner, wagons and all. Bobbi, a she was by now known, was loaded
into the wagons with the rest of the girls before she had a chance to grab a
wrap. Consequently she attracted the attention of a patrolman named Duffy, who
had come to appreciate that in such situations, a policeman hath rank
privileges. He attempted to collect what he regarded as only his right, and was
refused: Bobbi allowed as how she might be for sale but she was damned if she
was for free. Duffy persisted, and bought a knee in the groin, whereupon he lost
all discretion and laid open Bobbi's face with the barrel of his pistol. This so
mightily embarrassed Duffy's sergeant, who was also Duffy's brother-in-law, that
he was forced to ignore the wound, locking Bobbi in with the rest of the girls
in the hope that her disfigurement could be passed off as the result of a razor
fight in the cells. By the time she got medical attention, it was too late. She
was scarred through and through, and forever unsuited for the only job she knew.
  Almost a year later, a producer received an unsolicited tape in the mail. Such
tapes are never played, but this one had the songs listed on the outside, and
the producer's eye was caught by the first title: "The Suicide Song." It was a
crude, home-taped version of the song you just heard, audio only. The producer
played it once, and spent a frantic seventeen hours locating Bobbi Joy.
  He didn't make her a star: he simply recorded her songs and made them
available for sale. She became a star, a starlike there had never been before.
At least seven of her recordings, tape and holo, were proscribed from public
broadcast-because areas in which they were played showed sudden jumps in the
suicide rate. The 70's and 80's were not good years in which to live, and Bobbi
Joy spoke for all too many of us all too well. She was a phenomenon, endlessly
analyzed and never defined, and if some of us took a perverse kind of courage
from her songs, maybe that was more reflection of us than of her. And maybe not.
  In any event, the producer with remarkable ease became unspeakably rich. And
it comforted him not. Poor devil, condemned to be the man who gave Bobbi Joy to
the world, how could his heart be soothed with money? He gave most of it away to
his mad brother, who thought he could build a time-machine, just to be rid of
it. He pickled himself in alcohol with the balance, and never, ever played her
tapes for himself. Like all her fans, he ached to bring her peace and knew no
man ever could; but there was more. He loved her with a ferocious and utterly
hopeless desperation, and consequently avoided her company as much as possible.
He dreamed futile dreams of fixing her hurt, and lost a great deal of weight,
and when his mad brother told him one spring day that the time machine was a
success, he knew what he had to do.
  His brother, though road, was not so mad as he was by now, and sought to
reason with him. He spoke of possible disruption of the time-stream by the
changing of the past, and other complicated things, and flatly forbade the
producer to use the time-machine.
  Right now, years in the future, he's nursing a sore jaw and wondering whether
I'm about to destroy the fabric of time. And so am I.
  I've been wandering around in your time for two or three days. I gave myself
some leeway to make plans, but I've been using it to cool off. And now I don't
know what to do. Maybe my brother was right; he knows a lot more than I about
it. But I can't leave her in pain, can I?
  Oh yes, one more thing: the bust is tonight. About four hours from now.

  What could we say? We had to believe him-the technology inherent in that
holographic sphere was certainly well beyond the present state of the art. More
important, if that voice truly existed in our time, we would have heard of it
long since. It was impossible to disbelieve that voice.
  Callahan summed it up for all of us.
  "What do you figure to do about it, brother?"
  The Meddler didn't answer, and suddenly I knew somehow, maybe from the set of
his mouth, maybe a little from the glance he gave Tommy Janssen.
  "I think I understand, Mike," I said softly. "I saw him talking to Tommy while
I was up on the stand, and I saw Tommy cuss him out. Somewhere outside he ran
into someone who told him where he could find a kid who used to be a heroin
addict, a kid who would certainly know where to get him a gun. He's going to
kill Patrolman Duffy. Aren't you, friend?"
  The Meddler nodded.
  "Then you've made your decision?" asked Callahan. "One murder'll fix
everything?"
  "It'll prevent that scar," said the Meddler. "And how can it be murder to kill
a scum like that? The hell with a gun, I can get within knife distance easily-no
one will be expecting anything, and, I don't care what they do to me
afterwards." He squared his shoulders, and looked Callahan in the eye. "You
figure to stop me?"
  "Well now, son," Callahan drawled, "I'm not certain I've got the right to
meddle in something like this. Besides, I reckon it's no accident you're closer
to the door than any of us. But it seems like I ought to point out-"
  He broke off and stared at the doorway. So did the rest of us. A man stood
there, where there had been no one a moment before. He looked like an older,
wearier version of the Meddler, built much the same, but he wasn't wearing an
overcoat so you could see that the pot-belly was actually an enormous belt
strapped around his waist. Obviously, it was a time-machine; just as obviously;
he was its inventor, come to stop his brother from tampering with history.
  But our attention was centered not on the machinery around his waist, but on
the much smaller piece of it in his right hand. Made of glass and seemingly
quite fragile, it could only have been the handgun of the 1990's, and the way he
held it told us that we ought to respect it. I thought of lasers and backed
away, fetching up against my amplifier.
  "I can't let you do it, John," said the newcomer, ignoring the rest of us.
  "You can't stop me," said the Meddler.
  "I can kill you," his brother corrected.
  "Look, Henry,'.' the Meddler said desperately, "I'm not going into this
blindly. I know what I'm doing."
  "Do you?" His brother laughed. "You damned fool, you haven't the faintest
notion what you could do by killing that fool policeman. Suppose a criminal he
would have apprehended goes on to kill some innocent people instead? Suppose the
simple removal of him from history suffices to disrupt this time-stream beyond
repair? You may be killing every man, woman and child in your time, John!"
  "Don't you think I know that?" cried the man in the overcoat. "And do you
suppose that's all there is to be afraid of? Suppose I'm entirely successful,
and only bring about a world without Bobbi Joy. She brought us all a self-
conscious awareness of collective guilt which had an enormous effect for good. I
don't know that I have the right to deprive the world of her music.
  "Suppose there's a Law of Conservation of Pain? Suppose pain can't be
destroyed within a continuum? Then all I'll have done is redirected her pain: I
suspect it will all be transferred to me-and I can't sing worth a damn. Henry, I
admit I don't have any idea what the consequences of my action may be. But I do
know what I have to do."
  "And I can't let you," his brother repeated.
  He lifted the strange glass pistol and aimed it at the Meddler's heart, and I
saw Callahan's big hands go under the bar for the sawed-off shotgun, and I saw
Long-Drink and the Doc and Tommy Janssen start to close in on the gunman, and I
knew that none of them would be in time, and without thinking I spun on my heel,
twisted the volume knob savagely on my amp, clutched my E-string as high as I
could and snapped the pick across it. A shrieking high-note lanced through the
air, and I rammed the guitar in front of the monitor-speaker for maximum
feedback.
  A red-hot knife went through every ear in the room, freezing the action like a
stop-motion camera. The guitar fed back and fed back, building from a noise like
a gutshot pig to something that was felt rather than heard. Glasses began to
shatter along the bar, then bottles on the long shelves behind it . . .
  And all at once, so did that deadly little glass gun.
  Quickly I muted the guitar, and our ears rang for a lingering minute. Blood
ran from a couple of cuts on Callahan's face, and the gunman's hand was a mess.
Doc Webster was at his side somehow, producing bandages and antiseptic from his
everpresent black bag and steering the wounded man into a seat.
  The Meddler sat down beside him. "How did you do it, Henry? I thought I had
the only-"
  "You do," Henry snapped. "You came back with it, you bloody maniac, and as
soon as you reappeared I knew from the look on your face that you had succeeded.
I didn't wait around to find out what change you'd made in the world I knew; I
hit you with a chair and took the belt, determined to make one last desperate
try to save my time. You laughed as you went down, and now I guess I know why.
Meddler!"
  The Meddler stood up, faced Callahan. "You've got a gun under that bar," he
stated. "I want it."
  Callahan stood his ground. "Not a chance," he said.
  "Then I'll knife him, or bash in his skull with a rock, or drop a match in his
gas-tank." He headed for the door, and no one got in his way.
  "Hold on a minute," I called out, and he stopped.
  "Look," he told me, "I'm grateful for what you did, but-"
  "Listen," I interrupted, "maybe we can't give you a gun . . . but we can sure
pass the hat for you."

  His jaw dropped as I whipped off the eleven-gallon hat and offered it to Noah
Gonzalez. Noah dropped in a five-dollar bill without hesitating, and passed the
hat to Slippery Joe. People began digging into their pockets, emptying their
wallets, and dropping the swag in the hat as it came their way. It filled
rapidly, and by the time it reached Fast Eddie I guess it had maybe a hundred
dollars or better in it.
  Eddie took it from Callahan and looked at the Meddler. "I ain't got no dough,"
he announced, "but I got a '65 Chevy outside dat'll do a hunnert'n'ten easy." He
fished out a set of keys and dropped them into the hat. "Don't waste no time
parkin' the bastard, you'll never find a parkin' space in Harlem dis time o'
night. Double park it; I'll pick it up from de cops tomorra."
  There were tears running down the Meddler's face; he seemed unable to speak.
  "Okay," said Callahan briskly, "you've got three or four hours. That should be
plenty of time. You drive to
  Hannah's as fast as you can, wave around that dough and tell Hannah you want
to take one of the girls home for the night. She sees all that cabbage, she'll
go for it. That'll get Bobbi clear of the bust, and what happens after that is
up to you. Good luck."
  He took the hat from Eddie and handed it to the Meddler, who took it with a
trembling hand.
  "Th-thank you," the Meddler said. "I . . . I hope I'm doing the right thing."
  "You're doing what you have to do," said Callahan, "and you don't have to kill
anyone. Now get out of here."
  The Meddler got.

  We sent his brother home eventually, and Eddie and I packed up our equipment
for the night. We felt sort of inadequate after having heard Bobbi Joy, and
anyway everyone in the joint was broke now. By closing time, we were all ready
to leave.
  The next night we were all there by seven, and although it was Punday Night
nobody felt much like making jokes. A few of us had tried to get news of the
previous night's raid from the police, but they weren't talking, and we were as
filled with suspense as the fireplace was with glass.
  Along about eight the sporadic conversation was silenced by the sudden
appearance of the time-traveling belt on the bar, a soft green sphere and a
single piece of paper encircled in it. The piece of paper proved to be a note,
which read:
  Didn't want to leave you hanging. Please destroy this belt. The next time we
all might not be so lucky. Many thanks from both of us.
  Callahan tossed the belt into the fireplace, and it landed with a crunching
sound. Then he picked up the sphere, and held it in his big hand. For the second
time in two days, the fireplace faded from sight, but this time it was replaced
by a mountain stream, crisp clean pines in the background, anachingly beautiful
sunset playing tag with ominous grey stormclouds.
  Bobbi Joy sat by the stream, her guitar across her lap, and her unscarred face
was more beautiful than all the sunsets that ever were. She gazed serenely at
all of us, and fitted her fingers to the strings.
  It began slowly, a simple statement of key woven out of ninth chords that rose
and fell like cyclical hopes in a crazy time-signature. Gradually, the pauses
between the ringing chords were filled in with rhythmic direction, picking up
speed and becoming almost a calypso beat-save that calypso never used such
chords. And Bobbi Joy sang:

    I walk around with . . . doubt inside of me
    I don't believe in . . . what I try to be
    Words I whisper . . . seem like a lie to me
    Strange thing
    Wonder what's happening?

  Her voice spoke of confusion and fear, of doubt and loneliness; and our hearts
sank within us.

    I'm scared that maybe . . . I'm what I seem to be
    Today is only . . . another dream to me
    Fading,quickly . . . from my memory
    Strange thing Wonder what's happening?

  All around the room I saw men respond to that plaintive question, saw them
wince at the thought of failure, as Bobbi Joy went into the bridge of her song.
Cradled in strings and an ironically mellow organ, she went on:

    The sky is changing color
    And the ground is far away
    I wandered in my mind
    And now I've lost the way . . .
    Where are the places . . . that I used to go?
    Who are the people . . . that I used to know?
    Will things be any . . . better tomorrow?
    Strange thing Wonder what's happening?

  And then, cutting through our despair as the sun cut through the holographic
clouds, a full orchestra came out of nowhere, a warm carpet of sound that
swelled in moments to an almost Wagnerian peak. Bobbi's face was transfused with
a startling smile of pure joy, and fullthroated she sang:

    And then I meet a Meddler
    And the Meddler comes to me
    He tells me of my future
    And he comforts me . . .

  And the final verse exploded in Callahan's Place like a hallelujah chorus of
horns and violins, banishing all the fear and the uncertainty and the pain,
turning them all to nothing more than paid dues, the admission price to
happiness:

    Now rain is falling . . . like a beautitude
    Trees are weeping . . . tears of gratitude
    There's been a change in . . . my whole attitude
    Strange thing
    Good things are happening
    Strange thing--
    Good things are happening

  And with a flurry of trumpets, the song died. Bobbi Joy smiled a deep,
satisfied smile and disappeared, taking her mountain stream with her.
  Callahan's arm came down fast, and the sphere exploded in the center of the
fireplace. And in that moment we realized, all of us in Callahan's Place, that
the Meddler's guess had been part right. Just as there are laws of Conservation
of Matter and Energy, so there are in fact Laws of Conservation of Pain and Joy.
Neither can ever be created or destroyed.
  But one can be converted into the other.








                                       6

                                 Just Dessert

  Sooner or later, just about every bar acquires that most obnoxious of
nuisances: the practical joker. I'd have thought Callahan's Place would be
immune to that particular kind of carbuncle-we don't seem to pick up the
standard idiots that most saloons have to put up with, the weepy drunks and the
belligerent loudmouths and the ones who drink to get stupider. It's almost as
though some sort of protective spell ensures that the only people who find
Callahan's are the ones who should-and the ones who must.
  But very occasionally, some refugee from the Dew Drop Inn does accidentally
wander in, usually for just long enough to make us appreciate his absence when
he finally leaves. There was, for instance, the guy of an ethnic extraction I
can't specify without getting a lot of Italians mad at me, who represented a
juke-box concern. He made Callahan an offer he couldn't refuse-so Mike didn't
bother refusing. The guy's broken arms eventually healed, I understand, but he
never got over the amnesia. Then there was the gent who brought his young
secretary in to get her drunk for carnal purposes. Callahan got a little sloppy
that night: somehow all the ginger ale ended up in her glass and all the vodka
in his. When he woke up he was a far piece from nowhere, minus a secretary and a
rather sporty pair of pants.
  When the Practical Joker arrived, however, it was not Callahan but Doc Webster
who fixed his wagon.

  It was a Friday night, and the place was more crowded than Dollar Day in a
cathouse. Fast Eddie was sharing his piano bench with three other guys, Callahan
and Tom Hauptman were behind the bar, busier than a midget mountain-climber, and
we were plumb out of beer nuts. Me, I was sandwiched between Doc Webster and
Noah Gonzalez at the bar, feeling the urgency of hydraulic pressure, wishing
there wasn't a wall of folks between me and the jake.
  I guess it was the huge number of cars scattered around out in the parking lot
that made that sadistic jackass think he'd found the perfect place to pull off
his little gag. Come to think on it, maybe Fate was leading him to Callahan's
after all.
  In any case, he came shouldering through the throng with his two buddies on
either side of him at about eleven, and the three of them took up position at
the bar just beside the Doc. I noticed them out of the corner of my eye and
gaped like a fish with lockjaw. The guy in the middle was plainly and simply the
ugliest man I had ever seen.
  When they passed out necks he thought they said "sex" and asked for lots and
lots. His chin and his Adam's apple looked like twin brothers in bunk beds, his
nose appeared to be on sideways, and his eyes were different sizes. His ears
were so prominent that from the front he looked like a taxicab coming down the
street with the doors open, and his hair resembled a lawn with persistent
crabgrass. The longest strands issued from his nostrils. As he reached the bar,
the clock over the cashbox stopped, and I couldn't blame it a bit. I forgot
about my bladder and gulped the drink I'd been nursing.
  The Doc saw my face, swiveled his massive bulk around to look, and damn' near
dropped his Scotch; you have to understand that the Doc firmly believes in the
Irish legend that on Judgement Day you will be suspended head-down in a barrel
containing all the liquor you've ever spilled, and if you drown, to Hell with
you. Even Callahan shuddered.
  The guy glanced at the perfectly ordinary-looking accomplices on either side
of him, pulled a fistful of singles from the pocket of his sportscoat, and said,
"Boilermakers." The noise of the crowd had begun to abate as folks caught sight
of the apparition, and the single word was plainly audible.
  Callahan's cigartraveled from one side of his mouth to the other. He shrugged
his broad shoulders and produced three shotglasses and three chasers, unable to
take his eyes off the guy in the middle.
  The three of them lifted their shots, upended them, then did the same with the
beers.
  "Again," said the ugly man, and Callahan refilled their glasses.
  The second round went down, if anything, faster than the first.
  "Again."
  Callahan blinked, shrugged again and made three more boilers.
  Gulp-gulp-gulp.
  Now, even in Callahan's Place on a Friday night, amid some of the most
dedicated drinkers that ever tried to outdo a sponge, this sort of thing is
bound to attract some attention. The silence was nearly complete; some of the
boys in the far corners began climbing up on tables and chairs to watch, and
there were enough necks being craned to make a chiropractor dizzy with glee.
Over at the piano Fast Eddie began a pool, taking bets on how many more rounds
the three strangers could survive.
  After the sixth set of boilers had been made and unmade, Callahan tried to
call a halt. "Sorry, gents. If you want to commit suicide, you'll have to find
another joint."
  The two flankers nodded, but the ugly man reached into his sports coat pocket
again, produced a chopstick, and balanced it on his index finger. "Peter Piper
picked a peck of pickled peppers," he said clearly and distinctly. "British
constitution. The Leith police dismisseth us. Sister Suzie's sewing shirts for
soldiers . . ."
  He kept it up until Callahan, exchanging looks with Doc Webster, put another
shot in front of him. The guy shut up and gulped the sauce, sent a glass of beer
after it, and waited expectantly.
  Callahan sighed and opened a fresh bottle, and I could tell from the label
that it was the colored water Tom Hauptman drinks when he's working (explaining
to anyone who'll listen that "The wages of gin are breath"). I guess the big
barkeep figured this mug was too far gone to notice the difference.
  But as he reached out to pour, the unlovely customer put his hand over his
glass. "Wait a bit," he said faintly, his voice suddenly wavering. "I . . . I
don't know. Maybe I . . . oh Lord, I don't feel too good. I think I'm gonna be .
. ." He clutched his middle and leaned over the bar, and a ghastly mess
splattered on the counter-top.
  A great disgusted groan went up, and those of the boys with weak stomachs
began to make their way toward the door.
  But the real stampede began when the hapless stranger's two companions,
grinning wildly, produced a pair of spoons and dug in.
  I would have bet my store teeth that nothing short of an earthquake could
empty Callahan's Place on a Friday night, but that about did it. Folks fled in
all directions, out the front door, the back door, even the windows, horror on
every face, hideous gargling cries fading into the night.
  When the smoke had cleared and the commotion ceased, Callahan, the Doc and I
were the only survivors, and even the indomitable Callahan looked green about
the gills. Tom was out cold on the floor behind the bar.
  And that damned practical joker and his two cronies turned around, looked at
the empty saloon, and began laughing hard enough to bust a gut, slapping their
thighs and punching each other on the shoulder.
  "What the hell . . ." I began, and the ugly man, looking fully recovered now,
turned to face me, still laughing fit to kill. He pulled open his sports coat,
disclosing a hot water bottle pinned over the inside pocket. "Beef stew," he
gasped, and his pals began laughing even harder.
  Callahan went from pale green to bright red, and his hand went under the bar,
emerging with a softball bat.
  "No, Mike!" I cried, "Don't! I know how you feel, but there's just a wild
chance that some jury somewhere in the world might convict you."
  Muscles bulged in his jaw, but he got a grip on himself and lowered the bat.
The three waterheads kept on chortling, oblivious.
  "All RIGHT, goddammit," Callahan bellowed. "You've had yer fun. Now get the
rest o' this crap off my bar and get outa here before I murder yez." I was
startled to notice that Doc was grinning broadly. It didn't figure to be his
kind of humor.
  The three wits, sensing danger at last, nodded and began spooning up the
remains of the stew. In no time the bar-top was reasonably clean. The ugly joker
offered Callahan a ten-spot for his trouble, and nearly had it for dessert.
Still smiling idiotically,. they headed for the door and disappeared into the
night.
  Callahan caught sight of the Doc's grin and glared at him, still furious.
"What the hell are you laughin' at?" he growled, and the Doc's grin got even
wider.
  "I saw that gag pulled once before, Mi , ' he said, "and I recognized it right
off."
  "So that makes it funny?"
  "Hell, no."
  "Well then?"
  "That guy's stomach must be pretty good to handle all that booze," the Doc
said happily, "but I wonder how he and his buddies are gonna like the seasoning
I put in the stew while their backs were turned."
  The Doc opened his pudgy fist, and there was a little bottle in it, labeled,
"serum of ipecac."
  Callahan's eyes widened, and then he smiled.








                                       7

                       "A Voice Is Heard In Ramah . . ."

  How should I know?
  It was a combination of things, I guess, and no one special reason. For one
thing, the place doesn't look like much from the outside. Nor is the interior by
any stretch of the imagination romantic-more like a cross between a Chinese
firedrill and Tim Finnegan's last party, most nights. But then you can't tell
that from the highway either. Whatever the reason, it just sort of turned out
that women didn't come into Callahan's Place.
  All right, maybe I'm ducking the issue. Maybe there was some kind of masculine
aura about the place, a psychic emanation of chauvinist-piggery that kept it a
male bastion for so long. Maybe we were extended adolescents, emotionally
retarded, projecting a telepathic equivalent of the "No Girls Allowed" sign on
Tubby's clubhouse. There's surely no doubt that Callahan's is culturally
descended from the grand tradition of Irish bars, and they tend to be
misogynistic. Long-Drink McGonnigle's father-in-law, Thirsty O'Toole, assures us
that Irishmen go to pubs to get shut of the women.
  But I can't really believe there was ever any prejudice intended. Callahan
doesn't insist that his customers be human. Certainly no effort was ever made to
bar women, as happened at McSorley's. But men didn't come to Callahan's Place to
meet women, and that may be why the few that chanced to drop in generally left
quickly.
  Then one night a woman walked in and stayed, and I was real proud of the way
the boys acted.
  It was a Punday Night, as it happened, a little late in the evening. A
perfectly good topic-"trees"-had been worked over for so long that the three
surviving contestants, Doc Webster, Tom Flannery, and Long-Drink, were . . .
pardon me . . . stumped. Callahan declared all three co-winners and, as custom
demanded, refunded their might's tab. But as it was still a bit early we decided
to hold a play-off for Grand Pundit, no holds barred, any topic, and the three
champions agreed.
  Long-Drink led off, his eyes filled with that terrible gleam that presages a
true stinker. They call him LongDrink because he is one long drink of water:
when he sits he looks like he's standing, and when he stands he looks like three
other guys. He doesn't mass much more than a pickup truck, and he is the only
man I know who can talk and drink whiskey at the same time. He does a lot of
both.
  "Gentlemen," he drawled, demonstrating the trick, "the story I am about to
relate takes place in the distant future. Interstellar travel is commonplace;
contacts with alien races are familiar experiences. One day, however, a planet
is discovered out Antares way whose sole inhabitant is an enormous humanoid,
three miles high and made of granite. At first it is mistaken for an immense
statue left by some vanished race of giants, for it squats motionless on a
yellow plain, exhibiting no outward sign of life. It has legs, but it never
rises to walk on them. It has a mouth, but never eats or speaks. It has what
appears to be a perfectly functional brain, the size of a four-story
condominium, but the organ lies dormant, electrochemical activity at a
standstill. Yet it lives.
  "This puzzles the hell out of the scientists, who try everything they can
think of to get some sign of life from the behemoth-in vain. It just squats,
motionless and seemingly thoughtless, until one day a xenobiologist, frustrated
beyond endurance, screams, `How could evolution give legs, mouth and brain to a
creature that doesn't use them?'
  "It happens that he's the first one to ask a direct question in the thing's
presence. It rises with a thunderous rumble to its full height, scattering the
clouds, thinks for a second, booms, `IT COULDN'T,' and squats down again.
  " 'Migod,' exclaims the xenobiologist, `Of course! It only stands to reason.'
"
  There was an extended pause, in which the sound of Long-Drink blinking was
plainly audible. Then a hailstorm of glasses, full and empty, burst in the
fireplace, loud enough to drown out the great collective groan- Doc Webster's
eyes rolled briefly, like loaded dice, and came up snake eyes. Callahan began
passing our fresh drinks with a slightly stunned expression.
  The Doc contemplated a while, looking a lot like some of the merrier
representations of the Buddha. "Bug-eyed punster sort of stuff, eh? Say, did you
boys ever hear of the planet where the inhabitants were mobile flowers?
Remarkably similar to Earthly blossoms, but they had feet and humanlike
intelligence. The whole planet, from the biggest bouquet to the smallest
corsage, was ruled over by a king named Richard the Artichoke Heart . . .
anyhow, one day a pale-eyed perennial caught Richard's eye at a court orgy, and
. . ."
  I tuned the Doc out for a second. Fast Eddie, sensing some truly legendary
horror in the offing, had stealthily left his piano stool and began edging
casually toward the fire extinguisher in the corner, an expression of rapt
attention on his monkey face. There's enough of the Doc to make two or three
good targets, but I sidled out of the line of fire all the same.
  " . . . the smitten monarch engaged royal tutors of all sorts, to no avail,"
the Doc was saying. "Artists, musicians, philosophers, scientists and
mathematicians failed alike to engage the attention of the witless concubine,
whose only apparent interest was in gathering pollen. At last the embarrassed
Richard gave her up as hopeless and had some Rotenone slipped into her soup. As
he exclaimed to this prime minister later that night, `I can lead a horticulture
but I can't make her think!' " The Doc's poker face was perfect.
  And in the terrible pause that ensued, before Eddie could trigger the
extinguisher, a clear, sweet, contralto voice asked, "What sort of flower was
she?" and every head in the place swung toward the door like weathervanes in a
windstorm.
  And there she was.

  She was a big woman, but none of it was extra, and she stood framed in the
doorway with an easy grace that a ballerina might have envied. Her hair was long
and straight, the color of polished obsidian. Her skin was fair without being
pale, and she wore a long-sleeved, highnecked dress of royal purple that brushed
sawdust from the floor. She was pretty enough to make -a preacher kick a hole in
a stained-glass window.
  She fielded the combined stares of a couple dozen goggle-eyed males with no
effort at all, a half-smile playing at the corners of her mouth, and I had the
distinct feeling that we could all have turned into three-headed tree frogs
without disturbing her composure in the least. Perhaps that was why our own
composure was so manifestly smithereened and scattered to the four winds-but I'm
more inclined to think it was the one-two sledgehammer punch of, A woman in
Callahan's? followed by the equally startling, Why the hell not? What shocked us
the most was that we had no idea why we should be so shocked. Like opening a
ginger ale and finding Jamesons' inside: nothing wrong with it, but it sort of
takes you by surprise.
  Doc Webster tried unsuccessfully to clear his throat; his poker face was now
royally flushed. "I . . . uh," he stammered, "don't know what kind of . . . uh .
. . flower she was, young lady."
  A grin stuck red lips back from perfect teeth. "I just thought," she said
clearly, "that the king might be suffering from fuchsia shock."
  There was a pause, and the soft, subtle sound of eyeballs glazing: you can
only absorb so much at once. But Callahan rose magnificently to the occasion.
  "Sure and begonia," he breathed.
  "Oh," she gasped, and blinked. "Perhaps I shouldn't be here. I didn't realize
this was an Iris bar."
  Long-Drink choked, spraying Bushmill's like a sixfoot-seven aerosol. And
suddenly we were all roaring, hooting, rocking with laughter, the kind that
leaves your eyes wet and your sides sore. The timbers rang with merriment, a
happy release of tension.
  "Lord, lord," the Doc gasped, wiping his eyes and clutching at his ample
belly, "nobody's made a straight man out of me in twenty years. Whoooo-ee!" He
shook his head ruefully, still chuckling.
  "Lady," said Callahan, a world of meaning in the words, "you'll do." There was
respect in his whiskey baritone, and a strange, deep satisfaction. She
acknowledged the former with a nod and stepped into the room.
  The bar had been crowded, but by the time she reached it she had enough room
to park a truck, and a wide choice of seats. She picked one and sat gracefully,
making a small noise of surprise and delight. "I never thought I'd see an
armchair this tall," she said to Callahan, setting her purse on the bar.
  "I don't believe in bar stools," Callahan explained. "A man should be
comfortable when he drinks."
  "A man?" she asked pointedly.
  "Oh, a woman ought to be comfortable all the time," he agreed solemnly. "Hey,
Eddie?"
  "Yeah, boss?"
  "You want to open a window? I think I smell bra smoke. "
  She reddened.
  I looked at Eddie, was surprised to see a glare instead of a grin. Migod, I
thought crazily. Fast Eddie has been smit. It didn't seem possible; ever since
his wife divorced him a few years back, Eddie had been a confirmed loner.
  "TouchΘ," she conceded at last. "I had no call to criticize your speech
patterns. I'm sorry."
  "No problem," Callahan assured her. "My name's Mike." He stuck out a big
calloused hand.
  She shook it gravely. "I am Rachel."
  "What'll it be, Rachel?"
  "Bourbon, please."
  Callahan nodded, turned around and began mixing I. W . Harper and ice cubes in
the proper proportions. She opened her purse, removed a wallet from it and
pulled out a five-dollar bill, and I found that I was talking.
  "I'm afraid you can't use that fin in here, Rachel." It felt strange not to be
paralyzed.
  She turned to me, and I saw her eyes for the first time close up, and I felt
my tongue being retired tighter than ever. I don't know how to describe those
eyes except to say that they looked impossibly old, older than eyes could be.
There was some pain in them, sure-most people that Fate leads to Callahan's
Place have anguished eyes when they first arrive-but beyond the pain was a kind
of unspeakable weariness, a terrible and ancient knowledge that had no brought
satisfaction. My memory churned, and produced the only remotely similar pair of
eyes I have ever seen: my grandmother, dead of cancer these twenty years.
  "I beg your pardon?" she said politely, and I tried hard to climb back up out
of her eyes. Tom Flannery sensed my distress and came to my aid.
  "Jake's right, Rachel," he said. "Callahan doesn't believe in cash registers
either. He only deals in singles."
  "You mean everything in the house costs a dollar?" she asked in surprise.
  "Oh, no," Tom demurred. "Everything in the house costs fifty cents. There's a
cigar box full of quarters down there-see?-and you pick up your change on the
way out . . . if you've left your glass on the bar."
  "What's the alternative?" she asked with a puzzled frown, as Callahan set her
drink down before her.
  "Smash your glass in the fireplace," Callahan said cheerfully. "Does you a
world of good sometimes. It's worth fifty cents, easy."
  Her whole face brightened. "A long time ago," she said thoughtfully, "I bought
an entire house for the single purpose of smashing crockery in it. I think I
like your place, Mike."
  "That makes two of us," he said comfortably, and poured himself a beer mug of
Bushmill's best.
  "To Callahan's Place," she said, draining her glass in one easy motion and
holding it high. Callahan didn't bat an eye. He inhaled his own whiskey as fast
as it'd pour and raised his glass too. Two arms fell as one.
  Glass shattered in the fireplace, and a spontaneous cheer went up from all
around. Long-Drink McGonnigle began singing, "For She's a Jolly Good Fellow,"
and was stifled without ceremony.
  She turned to face us. "Lots of bars make a woman feel welcome," she said.
"This is the first one that ever made me feel at home. Thank you all."
  Ever see a whole bar blush?
  Fast Eddie came in the door-no one had seen him leave-with change of a five
from the all-night deli across the street and gave it to her gravely, a solemn
look on his wrinkled face. But Callahan refused the single she offered. One
exquisite eyebrow rose quizzically.
  "Rachel," he said, "this here is Punday Night at my Place, and the champeen
punster doesn't have to pay his . or her . . . bar bill. From what I've heard
already, I'd say you've got a shot at the title." Her face lit with a merry
smile. Callahan explained the format and the subject we were using and built her
another drink.
  She paused a moment in thought. "The Middle East," she began at last, "finally
achieved a kind of uneasy stability in the late 1970's. Israel and the Pan-
Arabian nations maintaining a fragile truce. Then one day the Arabian ambassador
to Israel, Opinh Bom Bay, chanced to spy a carousel in the market place and,
being intrigued by this Westernish recreation, decided to try it. Being a
neophyte, he became extremely dizzy, dismounted from his wooden steed with great
difficulty, and reeled out of the square. A Chinese shepherd called Ewe Hu was
passing through Jerusalem at that time with three fine sheep, and Bom Bey
staggered into their midst. The middle sheep promptly ate him.
  "Horrific visions of the war that would inevitably ensue racing through his
mind, Ewe Hu flung up his hands and cried, `Middle lamb, you've had a dizzy Bey!
' "
  There was a ghastly ,silence, such as must exist on the airless wastes of the
Moon, and Callahan's ever-present cigar fell from his lips, landing with an
absurdly loud splash in his glass. Oblivious, he lifted the glass and drank.
When he set it down again, the cigar was back in his teeth, soggy and drooping.
  Long-Drink made a face. "You didn't keep to the subject," he complained
feebly, and Fast Eddie began to cloud up.
  But she stood her-ground, deadpan. "The story," she maintained, "was clearly
about Zion's friction."
  And the silence fell in a million shards, whoops of laughter, blending in with
groans and the volley of breaking glass on the hearth.

  Tom Flannery entered a forfeit about the same time Long-Drink and the Doc
conceded defeat, and that was Rachel's first night at Callahan's Place. She
returned on the following night, and then on the following Tuesday, and soon
became something of a regular. She was there when Tommy Janssen got married
right in front of the fireplace, and the night the Place caught fire, and that
sad night when gentle, softly smiling Tom Flannery finally failed to show up
(Tom's doctors had given him nine months to live, the day before he happened
into Callahan's Place), and she just seemed to fit. Although she was never by
any stretch of the imagination One Of The Boys, she fit in a way that reminded
me very faintly of Wendy in
  Never-Never Land. But she was not disturbed by the hooliganry of her Lost
Boys, nor dismayed by their occasional ribaldry-once when Doc Webster, slightly
jealous of her superior puns, tried to embarrass her with an offcolor joke, she
responded with a gag so steamy and so hilarious that the Doc blushed clear down
to his ankles and laughed himself silly. And she was incredibly gentle with Fast
Eddie, who came to display the classic signs of a man goofy with love. Suddenly
all he knew how to play was torch songs, and while she always praised them, she
pointedly missed the point, yet somehow allowed him to keep his self-respect.
  Curiously, Eddie was the only one of us to fall for her. Certainly, all of us
at Callahan's were heir to the tradition of the B-movie-and the A-movie for that
matter-that any female who enters your life in a dramatic manner must be your
fated love. But somehow Rachel didn't elicit that reflex of imagined desire in
us. She was never cold-you retained at all times an impression of vibrant
feminity-but she never projected either the air of receptivity which provokes
passes, or the studied indifference which is the same thing in disguise. We
never even learned much about her, where she lived and that sort of thing. All
we knew was that she was fun to be with: she was a note of nearly pure cheer
even in a place where good cheer was commonplace.
  But only nearly pure. There were those eyes. They reminded me in many ways of
Mickey Finn's eyes when he first came around, and I knew it was only a matter of
time before the right toast would unlock her heart and let out all that pain.
Hell, we all knew it-but she had to do it herself. You don't pry in Callahan's
Place.
  It was nearly four months before she finally opened up, a Thursday I believe
it was. She'd been abstracted lately, still taking part in convivial banter but
strangely distant too, and I was half-expecting what happened.
  Doc Webster had come bustling in about nine, later than usual for him on a
Thursday since he has no hospital duties that night. So he bought a round for
the house and explained. If asked, the Doc will assist at home birthings, a
practice he's been at some pains to keep from the attention of both the AMA and
the Suffolk County Police Department ever since the great Midwife Busts at the
Santa Cruz Birth Center a few years back. Doc says that pregnant women aren't
sick, that a lady ought to call the tune at her own birthing, all other things
being equal-he has oxygen and other useful things in his car, and he hasn't lost
one yet.
  "She was a primipara," he said with satisfaction, "but her pelvic clearance
was adequate, presentation was classic, she did a modified Lamaze, and damned
well too. Fine healthy boy, eight pounds and some, sucking like a bilge pump the
last I saw him. Lord, I'm thirsty myself."
  Somehow news of new life makes you feel just plain good, and the Doc's own joy
was contagious. When the last glass had been filled, we all stood up and faced
the fireplace. "TO MOTHERHOOD!" we bellowed together, and it rained glasses for
a while.
  And when the racket had stopped, we heard a sound from inside the joint's
single rest room, a literally unmistakable sound.
  Rachel. Weeping.

  Absurd situation. Over two dozen alarmed and anxious men, accustomed to
dropping everything and running to anyone in pain. All of us clustered around
the bathroom door (labeled "Folks") like winos outside a soup kitchen, and not
one of us with the guts to open up the damned door because there's a lady in
there. Fast Eddie's ferocious glare would have stopped us if scruples hadn't.
Confused and mortally embarrassed, we shuffled our feet and looked for something
tactful to say. Inside, the sobbing persisted, muted now.
  Callahan coughed. "Rachel?"
  She broke off crying. "Y . . . yes?"
  "You gonna be long? My back teeth are floatin'."
  Pause.
  "Not long, Mike. I'll hurry."
  "Take your time," he rumbled.
  She did, but eventually the door opened and she came out, no tear tracks
evident, obviously in control again. Callahan mumbled thanks, glared around at
us furiously and went in.
  We came to our senses and began bustling aimlessly around the room, looking at
anything but Rachel, talking spiritedly. Callahan flushed it almost at once and
came back out, looking as innocent as a face like that will let him. He went
back behind the bar, dusting his meaty hands.
  Rachel was sitting at the bar, staring at where a mirror would be if Callahan
believed in encouraging narcissism: plain bare well, criss-crossed with all the
epigrams, proverbs and puns Callahan's found worth recording over the past I-
don't-know-how-many years of . . . ahem . . . flashing wit. The one she was
looking at was attributed to a guy named Robinson. It said: "A man should live
forever or die trying."
  "Women too, I suppose?" she asked it.
  Callahan looked puzzled, and she pointed to the quote. He studied it a minute,
then turned back to her.
  "You got a better idea?"
  She shrugged, held out her hand. The big barkeep filled it with a glass of I.
W . Harper and poured one for himself. The sparkling conversation going on
around the- room seemed to sort of run down. She sipped daintily . . . then said
a word I'd never heard her use before and gulped the rest.
  Then she rose from her chair and walked to the chalkline before the fire. The
silence was total now.
  "To Motherhood," she said distinctly, and deep-sixed the glass. It sounded
like a shattering heart.
  She turned then and looked at us speculatively, trying to decide whether to
cut loose of it.
  "I've been here over three months," she said, "and in that time I've had a lot
of laughs. But I've seen some real pain, too, and I've seen you boys help the
ones that hurt. That man with one leg; the one whose fiancee entered a nunnery,
and was too devout to let himself be sad; the ski instructor who'd gone blind;
poor Tom Flannery. I've heard much stranger stories, too, and I think if anyone
can help me, you can."
  I calculate that by now I must have heard at least a hundred people ask for
help of one kind or another in Callahan's-it's that kind of a place. I only
remember one getting turned down, and he was a special case. We indicated our
willingness to help any way we could, and Fast Eddie fetched her a chair and a
fresh drink. She had enough composure back to thank him gently; and then she
began talking. During her entire narrative, her voice remained flat, impersonal.
As though she were giving a history lesson. Her first words explained why.

  "It's a long story," she said wearily, "at least it has been for me. An
uncommonly long story. It begins on the day of my birth, which is October 25,
1741."
  "Huh?" said Doc and Long-Drink and I and-loudest of all-Fast Eddie. "You mean
1941," Eddie corrected.
  "Who's telling this story? I mean 1741. And if you boys aren't prepared to
believe that, maybe I should stop right now."
  We thought about it. Compared to some of the things I've heard-and believed-in
Callahan's, this was nothing. Come to think, it explained a few things. Those
eyes of hers, for instance.
  "Sorry, Rachel," Callahan said for all of us. "So you're 232 years old. Go
on."
  Eddie looked like he'd been hit by a truck. "Sure t'ing," he said bravely.
"Sorry I innarupted,"
  And in the six or seven hours that ensued, Rachel told us the most incredible
tale I have ever heard, before or since. I couldn't repeat that tale if I tried;
that uncharacteristically impersonal voice seemed to go on forever with its
catalog of sorrows, outlining for us the happinesses and heartbreaks of more
than two hundred years of active womanhood. You could probably drag it out of me
word for word with deep hypnosis, for I never stopped listening, but the sheer
length and weight of the narrative seemed to numb my forebrain for indeterminate
periods of time; the aggregate memory is largely gone. But different bits and
pieces stuck in the minds of each of us, and I compared notes later. Me, for
instance, I recall how, when she was describing what it was like to be crammed
in a root cellar while a roaring fire overhead ate her first husband-and her
first six children. She kept saying over and over again how cramped it was and
how frustrating not to be able to straighten up; it struck me that even after
all the intervening years her mind continued to dwell on merely physical hurts.
Tom Hauptman now, he remembered in detail the business of her second husband,
the minister, going mad and killing her next five kids and himself because
anyone who refused to age like God intended must be sent by Satan. Tom said what
struck him was how little progress churches have made in two hundred years
toward convincing people that the unknown is not by definition evil. Long-Drink
is a war games nut-he retained the part about the Battle of Lake Champlain in
1814, which claimed her third husband and two more children. Fast Eddie
remembers the story of her first days as a whaler's whore in Nantucket because
she stopped in the middle and asked him solicitously if she was shocking him.
("Not me," he said defiantly, "I'll bet you wuz a terrific whore!" and she
smiled and thanked him and continued, clinically, dispassionately.) Spud
Montgomery recalls the three children that resulted from Rachel's whoring years,
because Spud's from Alabama and never stopped fighting the Civil War and that's
what they died in. Tommy Janssen remembers her last child, the imbecile, who
never did learn to feed himself and took thirty-five long years to die, because
Tommy grew up with a retarded sister. Doc Webster's strongest memory is of the
final birthing, her first in a hospital, the still-born-after which the OB
performed the hysterectomy. Doc identified strongly with the astonishment of a
doctor faced with a patient in her late twenties whose uterus had delivered
eighteen kids. Callahan characteristically recalls the man she was married to at
the time, the first man since her psychotic minister to whom she felt she could
tell the truth, with whom she did not have to cosmetically "age" herself, with
whom she could share her lonely, terrible secret; the gentle and strangely
understanding man who cured her of her self-loathing and self-fear and accepted
her for what she inexplicably was; the good and loving man who had been killed,
mugged for the dollar and a half in his pocket, a month or two before Rachel
found Callahan's Place.
  But not one of us retains anything like the complete text of Rachel's story.
We wouldn't want to if we could, for condensing it into a comprehensibility
would turn it into a soap opera. And, probably, we couldn't if we tried. If
somebody gave me a guaranteed-accurate rundown of my own future in that kind of
depth, I don't think I'd remember much more. It was one king hell mountain of a
tale, and it displaced its own weight in alcohol as the hours of its telling
dragged by.
  Me, I'm thirty-five years old, and I have been there and back again, and when
Rachel finished her virtually uninterrupted narration I felt like a five-year-
old whose greatgrandmother has just recited the Story of Her Life in horrific
detail.
  In the dead silence that grew from Rachel's last words there just didn't seem
to be anything to say to her, no words in all my experience that wouldn't sound
banal -like telling a leper that it's always darkest before the dawn. Not that
there had been agony in her voice at any time during her recital, nor any on her
face when she finished. That was the most ghastly thing about her tale; it was
delivered with the impersonal detachment of an historian, recited like the
biography of one long dead. You Are There At The Battle of Lake Champlain.
  Oh, there was pain aplenty in her story, sure-but so buried, under two
centuries of scars, that it could only be inferred. And yet the pain had been
there earlier, had broken through to the surface for a moment at least, when
Rachel had cried. How? Why?
  I became peripherally aware of the men of Callahan's Place, arrayed around me
with their mouths open. Even Callahan looked pole-axed-and that almost scared
me. I glanced around, looking for even one face that held some kind of answer,
some kind of consolation, some word for Rachel.
  And found one. Fast Eddie's mouth was trembling, but there were words in it
struggling to get out. He couldn't seem to bring himself to speak, but he looked
like he sure and hell wanted to.
  Callahan saw it too. "You look like you got something to say, Eddie," he said
gently.
  Eddie seemed to reach a decision all at once. Whirling to face Callahan, he
jammed his hands in his hip pockets and snarled-snarled!-" Who ast you? I got
nuttin' to say."
  Callahan started, and if I'd had any capacity for shock left I'd have been
shocked. Eddie barking at Callahan? It was like watching Lassie sink her fangs
into Tommy's leg.
  "Eddie, " Doc Webster began reasonably, "if you have any words that might help
Rachel here I think you ought to
  "SHADDAP!" Eddie blared. "I tell ya I got nuttin' to say, see?"
  The silence returned, and stayed a while. We could only surmise that Rachel's
tale of sorrow had unhinged the banty little piano player. Creeping Jesus, it
had near unhinged me-and I wasn't in love with her. The central issue, then, was
still Rachel. Well . . . if Eddie had nothing to say, who did?
  Who else?
  "So all you have left is immortality, eh Rachel?" Callahan rumbled. "Tough
break."
  That did seem to put a little perspective on it. Surely Rachel's run of bad
luck was due to change soon. It was only logical. "Sure, Rachel," I said,
beginning to cheer up. "You're bound to start getting the breaks anytime now."
  But it was no good. There was a smile on her face, but not a happy one.
  "It figures," Long-Drink said hurriedly. "You can have a run of bad cards that
seems to last forever, but sooner or later you pick up your hand and find four
aces. It's just the Law of Averages, Rachel. Things always even out in the end."
  "Sorry boys," Rachel said, still smiling sadly. "Nice try. I understand what
you're saying-but there are a couple of holes in the logic. Two incorrect
assumptions, one of them your mistake and one of them mine."
  "What mistakes?" Callahan asked, his rugged face wrinkled in thought.
  "Your mistake first, Mike. It's a natural one, I suppose, but it's a mistake
just the same. What makes you think I'm immortal?"
  "Eh?"
  "I'm older than any four of you put together, yes. But longevity is not
immortality. Mike, nothing is immortal: ask Dorian Gray. My clock runs as slow
as his did-but it runs."
  "But you . . ."
  ". . . look a lot younger than 232 years old," she finished. "Right. I look
like I'm maybe crowding thirty. But Mike: what's my natural lifespan?"
  He started to answer, than shut up, looking thoughtful. Who the hell knew?
  "Someday I will die," Rachel went on, "just like you, like Tom Flannery. Like
all humans; like all living things. I know that, I feel it in my bones. And
there isn't a geriatrics expert in the world who can say when. There is no data
to work with; as far as I know I am unique."
  "I reckon you're right," Callahan conceded, "but so what? Anyone in this room
could die tomorrow-we're all under sentence of death, like you said. But to stay
sane a body just has to live as though they'll go on forever, assume there's a
lot of years left. Hellfire, Tom Flannery lived that way, and he knew better.
Maybe there ain't no way to figure the odds for you-but if I was an insurance
salesman, I'd love to have your business. Jake and Long-Drink are right: there's
good times around the corner, always, and I bet you live to see 'em.
  "I may not be as old as you, Rachel, but there's one thing I've learned in the
time I have been around: joy always equals pain in the long run."
  She shook her head impatiently and sighed. "The second mistake, Mike. The one
that's my fault, in a way. You see, the most spectacular points of the story
I've told you all tonight are the bad times, and so it must seem like I've just
always been a hard-luck kid. But that's not so at all. I've known happiness too,
in full measure, with Jacob and Isaiah and even with Benjamin, and most of all
with my second and most beloved Jacob. There were good times in Nantucket if it
comes to that, and throughout the whoring years; the profession is vastly
underrated. And my joys have been greater, I think, than any of you could know -
because you are correct, Mike: joy is the product of the pain that has gone
before it, and vice versa. I know I could never have appreciated Jacob's quiet
acceptance as much if I hadn't been looking for it for two centuries.
  "Oh, the seesaw never stops, I learned that when Jacob was killed-but then
again I was gladder to find this bar than any customer you've ever had."
  "Then what . . . I mean, why uh . . .?"
  "Why am I hurting? Hear me, Mike: there is nothing like extended life to make
you aware that you're going to die someday. I am more aware of my own mortality
than any of you could possibly be. Damn it, I've been dying for two hundred
years!
  "And how do you, how do normal people come to terms with that awareness of
mortality? How do you beat death?"
  "Oh lord," the Doc gasped. "I remember now. That toast . . ."
  "Yes." Rachel nodded. "The one that gave me the weeps, for the first time in
twenty years. 'To Motherhood.' I don't want to see or hear or say anything about
motherhood ever again! A man or woman who's afraid of dying will either decide
to believe in an afterlife . . . or have children, so that something of himself
or herself will live on. I haven't believed in God since my years with Benjamin-
and all my babies died childless and I can't have any more! I had nineteen
chances at real immortality, and they all came up craps. I'm the last of my
line.
  "So what will I leave behind me? I haven't the gift to leave great books or
paintings or music; I can't build anything; I have no eternal thoughts to leave
the world. I've been alive longer than anyone on Earth-and when I'm gone I'll
leave nothing; nothing more durable than your memories of me."
  Her voice had begun to rise shrilly; her hands danced in her lap. "For awhile
I had hope, for those of my children who shared my birthmark-an hourglass on its
side, high on the left shoulderblade-seemed to have a genetic share in my
longevity. But that damned birthmark is a curse, an unbeatable hex. Not one of
the, marked children had any interest at all in siring or bearing children of
their own, and accident or illness cut them down, every one. If even one of them
had left a child, I could die happy. But the curse is unbroken," she slammed her
fist down on the bar. "When I go I'll be gone, solid gone without a trace.
Centuries of living, and no heritage more durable than a footprint in the snow!"

  She was crying again, her voice strident and anguished, contorted with pain. I
could see Eddie, his own face twisting with strong emotion, trying to break in;
but now that he wanted to talk she wouldn't let him.
  "So what have you got to offer me, boys? What's your solution? Have you got
anything more useful than four fingers of bourbon?" She got up and flung her
empty glass at the fireplace, began grabbing glasses off the bar and throwing
them too, grunting with effort, still speaking: "What kind of . . . an-swers
have you . . . got for an . . . old old lady who's . . . trapped in a moving . .
. box sliding . . . downhill to . . ." She had run out of glasses, and with the
last words she gripped the longlegged armchair she'd been sitting on and heaved
it high over her head to throw it too into the fire, and as she stood there with
the heavy chair held high her face changed, a ook of enormous puzzlement
smoothing over the hysterical rage.
  " . death?" she finished softly, and crumpled like a rag doll, the chair
bouncing and clattering into a corner.
  The Doc was fast, and ten feet closer, but Fast Eddie beat him easily. He slid
the last yard on his knees, lifted Rachel's head with great tenderness onto his
lap, and hollered, "Rachel, lissen to me!" The Doc tried to take her away from
him, and Eddie backhanded him off his feet without looking up. "Lissen to me
Rachel, LISSEN goddamn it!" he thundered.
  Her eyes fluttered open. "Yes, Eddie."
  "Ya can't die, Rachel, not yet. You go and die on me an' I'll break both your
arms, I swear to God. Lissen here,_ if you want a daughter I can fix it."
  She smiled, a faint and bitter smile. "Thanks, Eddie, but adoption just isn't
the same."
  "I ain't talkin' about adoption," he barked. "But I tell ya I can fix it. Ida-
spoke up sooner, but you said you didn't ever want to think about kids again.
Now will ya lissen, or are you too busy dyin'?"
  She was teetering on the edge, but I guess curiosity must be a powerful
stimulant. "What . . . what do you mean?"
  "I'm sterile too, damn it. My wife divorced me for it." Our eyes widened a
little more at this revelation, and I was suddenly ashamednof how little I knew
about Eddie. "But I kept my ears open an' I found out how to beat it, how to
leave somethin' behind, see? Did you ever hear of cloning?"
  She looked startled. "You can't clone people, Eddie."
  "Not today, you can't. Maybe you an' I won't live to see it happen, either.
But I can take ya inta Manhattan to a place where they'll freeze a slice o' yer
skin, a lousy coupla million cells, an' keep 'em on ice 'til they can clone
people. Tom Flannery's there now, frozen like a popsicle, waitin' for 'em to
invent a cure for leukemia; he tol' me about it."
  I gasped in astonishment; saw Callahan beginning a broad grin.
  "So how 'bout it, Rachel?" Eddie snapped. "You want cryonics? Or d'ya just
wanna cry?"
  She stared at Eddie for a long moment, focusing about five feet past him, and
nobody dared exhale. And then two centuries of fighting spirit came through, and
she smiled, a genuine smile of acceptance and peace.
  "Thank you, Eddie," she breathed. Her eyes became for one timeless instant the
eyes of a young girl, the eyes that belonged on that youthful face; and then
they closed, and she began to snore softly. Rachel, who mourned for her lost
children, and was comforted.
  Doc Webster got up off the floor, checked her pulse, and slapped Eddie on the
back. "Always a pleasure, herr doktor, to assist you in the technique which
bears your name," he said jovially, spitting out a tooth. "Your medicine is
stronger than mine."
  Eddie met his gaze a little awkwardly, started to pick up Rachel's sleeping
form, and then paused. "Gimme a hand, will ya, Doc?"
  "Sure thing, buddy. We'll take her over to Smithtown General for observation,
but I think she'll be OK." Together they lifted her gently and headed for the
door.
  But Eddie stopped when they reached it and turned toward Callahan, staring at
the floor. "Mike," he began. "I . . . Uh . . . what I mean . . ." The apology
just wouldn't come.
  Callahan laughed aloud for the sheer joy of it and pegged the stump of his
cigar into the fireplace. "You guys," he said, shaking his head. "Always cloning
around."








                                       8

                               Unnatural Causes

  There's been a lot of noise in the papers lately about the series of seismic
shocks that have been recorded over the last few weeks in the unlikeliest
places. Quake-predicting is a young art, from what I hear, and an occasional
freak disturbance now and again should be no real cause for alarm-but an
unpredicted miniquake every day for two or three weeks, spotted all around the
globe, culminating in a blockbuster where a quake had no right to be, is bound
to cause talk.
  The seismologists confess themselves baffled. Some note that none of the
quakes took place in a densely populated area, and are somewhat reassured. Some
note the uniquely powerful though strictly local intensity of the blasts, and
are perturbed. Some note the utter inability of their science to explain the
quakes even after the fact, and fear that the end of the world is at hand.
  But me-well, from here at the site of the first quake in the series, Suffolk
County, Long Island, New York, U.S.A., I've got me a different idea.

  If you've been paying attention so far, you probably know what a circus
Callahan's Place can be on an ordinary night. Well I'm here to tell you that on
holidays like Christmas and New Year's Eve, it becomes something to stagger the
imagination. All the stops are pulled out, insanity reigns supreme, and the
joint generally resembles a cross between a Shriner's Convention and an asylum
run by the Marx Brothers.
  So perhaps it wasn't surprising that the first quake in the series struck damn
near Callahan's Place on Halloween Eve. It certainly couldn't have happened the
way it did on any other night.
  The place was more packed than even I had ever seen it before, and I've been
hanging out at Callahan's for quite a few years now. Added to the usual list of
regulars and semi-regulars were a host of old-timers and ex-regulars, some of
whom I knew only by reputation and some not at all. As I think I already told
you, a lot of Callahan's customers stop needing to drink after they've been
around long enough, and not many people in this crazy age enjoy judicious doses
of ethanol for its own sake. So they stop showing up, or become more involved
with their families, or simply move elsewhere-but holidays somehow draw them all
back like chickens to the roost come sundown.
  So by nine o'clock Callahan had already had to sweep the shattered glasses out
of the fireplace to make way for incoming shipments, leaving Tom Hauptman to
cover the bar, and more people were coming in all the time.
  Nearly everyone had come in costume, lending a surreal air to a bar that's
never been-what you'd call mundane. There were four guys in gorilla suts playing
poker in the corner, five or six sheeted ghosts doing a shuffle-off-to-Buffalo
through the press of the crowd, and seventeen assorted bug-eyed monsters and
little green men scattered here and there. I was profoundly glad to see that
Eddie had finished his mourning and put away his grief; he had showed up in
black-face and the most disheveled suit I'd ever seen, announcing, "I'm Scott
Joplin-lookit my rags." Doc Webster had dressed up as Hippocrates and was
instantly dubbed "Hippo-Crates" (having been forced to use a tarpaulin for a
toga); Long-Drink McGonnigle appeared in an ancient frock-coat with a quill pen
in the breast pocket, introducing himself as "Balzac-Balz to you;" Noah Gonzalez
and Tommy Janssen had teamed up as a horse with a head at both ends because
neither of them wanted to be the . . . aw, you get the idea. Callahan himself
was dressed up as a grizzly bear, which suited his huge Irish bulk well, but he
kept wincing when jostled, explaining to anyone foolish enough to listen that he
was "a b'ar tender." Me, I was dressed as a pirate with a black eye-patch and
the name of a certain oil company painted across my chest.
  I was watching the tumult and enjoying myself hugely, trying to guess the
identity of friends through their masks, when I spotted one very familiar face
unmasked.
  It was Mickey Finn.
  I hadn't seen Finn for quite a spell, since he moved up to the Gaspe Peninsula
in Canada to do some farming, and I was delighted to see that he'd made the
reunion.
  "Finn!" I hollered over the merry roar. "This way."
  Another human might not have heard me, but Finn looked up right away, smiled
across the room at me, and started working his way toward the bar.
  There's some machine in Finn, the way he tells it, but I think there's a lot
of human in him too. He could easily have put a hand through the wall, but he
was extremely careful not to discommode anyone on his way to the bar. I looked
him over as he approached, noted his work shirt, sturdy coveralls and worn
boots, and decided he was making a fair adjustment to his life of exile as a
Terran. Wrinkles on either side of his smile said that it was no longer such an
alien expression to him as it had once been.
  He reached me at last, shook my hand gravely and accepted a glass of rye from
Tom Hauptman. He offered Tom the traditional one-dollar bill.
  "No thanks, Mr. Finn," Tom told him. "Mike says your money's no good here."
  Finn smiled some more, kept the bill extended. "Thank you, sir," he said in
that funny accent of his, "but I truly prefer to pay my own way."
  I shook my head. "If you're gonna be human, Finn, you're gonna have to learn
to accept gifts," I told him.
  He sobered up and put away his money, nodding to himself as much as to me.
"Yes. This is a hard learning, my friend. I must not refuse a gift from Mr.
Callahan, who gave me the greatest gift-my free will."
  "Hey, Finn, don't take it so hard," I said quickly. "Accepting a gift
graciously is something a lot of humans never learn. Why should you be more
human than Spiro Agnew?" I leaned back against the bar and took a sip of
Bushmill's. "Come on, loosen up. You're among friends."
  Finn looked around, his shoulders relaxing. "Some of these are unfamiliar to
me," he said, gesturing toward the crowd.
  "Lot's of 'em are strangers to me too," I said. "Let's amble around and get to
know some of 'em. But first, tell me what you've been doing with yourself. How's
life in Canada?"
  "I am doing well," Finn said, "and I am also doing good, I think."
  "How do you mean?"
  "Jake my friend," Finn said earnestly, "the Gaspe is one of the biggest
paradoxes on this continent: some of the richest farmland, and some of the
poorest farmers. In addition to making my own living, I have been trying to help
them."
  "How do you do that?" I asked, interested.
  "In small ways," Finn replied. "I see further into the infrared than their
eyes can see; I can evaluate soil at a glance and compute yield, evaluate their
growing crops much better than they, suggest what to plan for. That taught them
to listen to my opinions, and of late I have been speaking of the necessity for
alternate means of distributing their goods. It goes slowly-but one day those
frozen acres will feed many hungry people, I hope."
  "Why, that's just fine, Finn," I said, slapping him on the back. "I knew there
was work for a man like you. Come on, let's meet some of the old-timers." Finn,
being as tight with his words as some gents are with their money, nodded briefly
and we plunged into the thick of the crowd.
  I spotted four tables pushed together near the fireplace, at which were seated
the Doc, Sam Thayer, and a whole bunch of apparent strangers in assorted odd
costumes. Best of all, Callahan was standing nearby-it seemed like a great place
to start. I steered Finn in that direction, collecting a couple of chairs on the
way and signalling Callahan to join us. When he saw Finn his face lit with
pleasure, and he nodded.
  As we sat down, one of the unfamiliar gents, dressed as a shepherd, was just
finishing a plaintive rendition of "I Know I'll Never Find Another Ewe," and was
applauded by a chorus of groans and cat-calls.
  "Better take it on the lamb, Tony," Doc Webster suggested.
  "Where there's a wool, Thayer's away," agreed Sam, rising as if to leave. One
of the boys removed his chair with a thoughtful expression, and he sat back down
rather farther than he had intended. Callahan lumbered up and appropriated the
chair, the head of his bear-costume under his arm, and Sam promptly sat on Bill
Gerrity's lap. This is funnier than it sounds, because Bill is a transvestite
and was done up as Marilyn Monroe that particular night (while Callahan's is
certainly not the only bar where Bill can indulge his peculiarity, it's the only
one where he doesn't have to put up with the annoyance of being propositioned
regularly-and Bill is not gay). As Sam was dressed as Mortimer Snerd, the effect
was spectacular, and those around the room not otherwise occupied cheered and
whistled. One of the gorillas in the corner looked up from his cards and
scowled.
  I glanced around the table, taking inventory: a fireman, a five-foot-seven
duck, two bug-eyed monsters (one purple and tentacled, one green and furry) and
one Conan the Barbarian. "Hey Mike," I called to Callahan, "introduce me and
Finn around and we'll swap stories." Callahan nodded and opened his mouth, but
the Doc put a beer in front of it. "I bear beer, bear," he announced, and
another groan arose.
  "Okay," I said. "I'll start the ball rollin' myself. Howdy folks, I'm Jake.
This here's Mickey Finn." Various hellos came from the group, and a pretzel
landed in my drink.
  "I've heard of you, Mr. Finn, said the shepherd, grinning. "They say you're
hell to drink with."
  Obviously the shepherd hadn't heard about this Mickey Finn, and I glanced at
Finn to see how he'd take it. I needn't have worried-apparently he had been
hanging around Callahan's Place long enough.
  "You'll make me feel sheepish, sir," he said with a straight face, "if you
take my name too litter-ally. Very baa-adly indeed, for I would feign have fun
with a fine Finn fan."
  Callahan and I guffawed, and Doc Webster's jaw dropped. "LordGod," the Doc
expostulated, "I'm going to hang up my puns, I swear."
  "A hypocritic oath," said the duck, and the Doc heaved a bag of beer nuts at
him. "Duck, duck, the Doc," Callahan and I crowed together, and the table broke
up.
  "Look Jake," said the shepherd when the commotion had died down, "what you
said about swapping stories sounds good to me. As we introduce ourselves, let's
explain what brought us here to Callahan's. I know some of you boys must have
stories I'd like to hear-nobody seems to come here without a reason. What do you
say?"
  We all looked around. "Suits." "Okay by me." "Why not?" There was no apparent
reluctance--Callahan's is the place you went to first because you needed to talk
about your troubles-and the first time is always the hardest. "Fine," said the
shepherd. "I guess I ought to start." He took a glass, filled it up and wetted
his whistle. He was about my age, with odd streaks of white hair on either
temple that combined with his classical shepherd's garb made him look like a
young Homer. His features were handsome and his build excellent, but I noted
with surprise that his left earlobe was missing. There was a scar on his right
shoulder, nearly hidden by a deep tan, that looked like it had been put there
with a crosscut saw. .
  "My name is Tony Telasco," he said when he had swallowed. "I give lectures and
slide shows and make speeches, and sometimes I go to jail, but I used to do a
lot of things before I came to Callahan's. I was a transcendental meditator for
awhile, staring at my navel. Before that I was a junkie, and before that I was a
drunk and before that I was a killer. That was right after I was a kid.
  "See, the thing I really am is a Viet Nam veteran."
  There were low whistles and exclamations all around.

  I was in my first year of college (Tony went on) when I got that magic piece
of paper from my draft board. Business Ad majors just weren't getting
deferments, and so I had the classic three choices: go to jail, Canada, or Viet
Nam.
  Which wasn't a lot of choice. Make no mistake, I was -scared spitless of Viet
Nam-I watched television. But I was scared and ashamed to go to jail, and scared
and incompetent to emigrate. To be brought into a strange country to fight would
be tough, but to move into one myself and make a living with no skills and no
degree looked impossible to me.
  So Nam seemed to be the lesser of three evils. I never made a moral decision
about the war, never questioned whether going there was the right thing to do.
It was the easiest. Oh, I knew a few guys who went to Canada, but I never really
understood them-I liked America. And I knew one fellow in my English class who
went to jail for refusing to step forward-but his third day there they found him
on the end of his bedsheet, a few inches off the floor, his cellmate apparently
asleep.
  And so I found myself in the Army. Basic was tough, but tolerable; I'd always
liked physical exercise, and I was in pretty good shape to start with. It was a
lot rougher on my mind.
  The best friend I made in Basic was a guy named Steve McConnell, from
California. Steve was a good joe, the kind of guy really good to have with you
in a rugged situation like Basic. He had a knack for pointing out the idiocies
of military life, and a huge capacity for enjoying them. King of a dry sense of
humor-he didn't laugh out loud, in fact he hardly ever laughed aloud, but he was
perpetually amused by things that drove me crazy. Like me, he'd sort of dirfted
into the Army, but the more he thought about the idea, the less he liked it.
Neither did I, but I didn't see anything I could do about it. We spent hours
peeling potatoes together, discussing war and women and the Army and women and
the Communist Menace in Southeast Asia and women and our D.I. Steve was an
independent thinker-he didn't hang out with the other blacks in our outfit, who
had cliqued up in selfprotection. That can be tough for a black man in the U.S.
Army, but Steve cut his own path, and chose his brothers by other criteria than
the shade they were painted. I don't know why he and I were so tight-I don't
know what his criteria were-but somehow we were so close I got the idea I really
knew him, understood where he was at.
  I was as surprised as anyone when he finally made his stand.
  There comes a day, see, when they line you up on a godawful cold February
morning and truck up a couple of coffin-sized cartons. The D.I.'s are clearly
more pretentious than usual, projecting the air that something sacred is about
to happen. By Army standards they're right.
  What happens is, you get to the head of the line and throw out your hands and
one huge mother of a sergeant flings a rifle at you as hard as he can-you've
been Issued Your Rifle, and mister, God have mercy on you if you drop it, or
fumble your catch and let part of it touch the ground. Worse than calling it a
"gun." A few guys do catch copper-plated hell for having fingers too frozen to
clutch, and you spend your time on line furiously flexing your fingers and
praying to God you won't blow it.
  Steve was right in front of me in line, and curiously withdrawn; I couldn't
get a rise out of him with even the sourest joke. I chalked it up to the cold
and the solemnity of the occasion, and I guess I was part right.
  All at once it was his turn and the big sergeant selected a rifle and pressed
it to his chest and straightarmed it with a bit extra oomph because he was from
Alabama and I prayed Steve would field it okay and he just simply sidestepped.
  It was just like that: one rushing second and then time stopped. Steve pulled
to his left and the rifle cartwheeled past him and struck earth barrel-first,
sank a motherloving three inches into the mud, the stock brushing my knee. All
around the parade gound people stopped cursing and joking and stared, stared at
that damned M-1 quivering in the mud like a branch planted by an idiot, stared
and waited for the sky to fall.
  The big sergeant got redder than February wind could account for and swelled
up like a toad, groping for an obscenity that could contain his fury. As he
found it, Steve spoke up in the mildest voice I ever heard.
  "I'm sorry, sergeant," he said, "but I can't take that rifle."
  The sergeant came to life; verbal insubordination was easier to comprehend and
deal with than that rifle jutting impossibly from the mud.
  "Shut up and pick up your goddamned rifle, nigger," he roared, "or you'll have
it for breakfast."
  Steve blinked, shook his head. "Sorry. Can't do her. That thing kills people
and I just can't take it from you."
  The sergeant hauled out his service .45 and aimed it at Steve's navel. "This
thing kills too, private. Pick up that rifle."
  I looked at Steve, paralyzed by his crazy stunt. He was plainly scared to
death, and I was as sure as he that he was about to die. Pick it up, Steve, I
prayed. You don't have to use it now, just pick the goddamned thing up.
  "Sergeant," he said finally, "you can make me pick it up, but you can't ever
make me use it. Not even with that automatic. So what's the point?"
  The sergeant glared at him a long moment, then holstered his .45 and waved
over a couple of corporals. "Take this goddamn nigger to the guardhouse," he
snarled, and bent over the carton again. Before I had time to think he heaved a
rifle at me, and I made a perfect catch. "Next!" he bellowed, and the line moved
foreard. I found myself in barracks, looking at my new rifle and wondering why
Steve had done such a crazy thing.
  I went off to Nam soon after that-tried to get word to Steve in the stockade,
but it couldn't be done. He got left behind with the rest of America, and I
found myself in a jungle full of unfriendly strangers. It was bad-real bad -and
I began to think a lot about Steve and the choice he had made. I couldn't tell
the people I was fighting from the people I was fighting for, and the official
policy of "kill what moves" didn't satisfy me.
  At first. Then one day a twelve-year-old boy as cute as Dondi took off my left
earlobe with a machete while I got some K-rations out of my pack for him. The
kid would have taken off my head instead of my ear, but a pretty tight buddy of
mine, Sean Reilly, shot him in the belly while he was winding up.
  "Christ, Tony," Sean said when he'd made sure the kid was dead, "you know the
word: never turn your back on a Gook. "
  I was too busy with my bleeding ear to reply, but I was coming to agree with
him. Just as Nam had been easier than jail, catching the rifle easier than
refusing to, killing Gooks was easier than discussing political philosophy with
them.
  A week later it got to be more easy.
  Sean's squad had been sent upriver to reconnoiter, while the rest of us got
our breath back for the big push. I was on sentry duty with a fellow whose name
I misremember-not a bad guy, but he smoked marijuana, and I'd been raised to
think that stuff was evil. Anyway this particular day he smoked a couple of
joints while we sat there listening to jungle sounds and waiting for relief so
we could eat. It made him thirsty, so I offered to spell him while he went to
the river for a drink. He slipped into the jungle, walking a little unsteadily.
  A minute later I heard him scream.
  It was only fifty yards or so to the river, but I came circumspectly,
expecting to find him dead and the enemy in strength. But when I poked my rifle
through the foliage, there was nobody in sight but him. He was on his knees with
his face buried in his hands. Oh Jesus, I thought, what a time to freak out. I
started to swear at him, and then I saw what he had seen.
  It was Sean, floating lazily against the bank with his fingers and toes
dangling from a sort of necklace around his throat and his genitals sewed into
his mouth.
  A friend, a man who had saved my life, a guy who wanted to be an artist when
he got home, carved up like a Christmas turkey by a bunch of slant-eye monkeys-
it became much more than easy to kill Gooks.
  It became fun.
  The rest of my tour passed in a red haze. I remember raping women, I remember
clubbing a baby's skull with a rifle-butt to encourage a V.C.-sympathizer to
talk, I remember torturing captured prisoners and enjoying it. I remember a
dozen little My Lais, and I remember me in the middle with a smile like a wolf.
Fury tasted better than confusion, and this time it was easier to kill than to
think.
  I don't know what would have happened to me if I'd come home kill-crazy like
that. God knows what happened to the ones that did. But two weeks before I was
due to go home I got a letter from a friend-in the States, a supply corporal
back at boot camp.
  Steve McConnell had died in military prison. He "fell down the stairs" and
broke nearly every bone in his body, but it was the ruptured spleen that killed
him. There had been no inquiry; the official verdict was "accidental death." As
accidental as Sean's-except our side did it.
  In the time it took me to read that letter I went from kill-crazy all the way
to the other kind, and the next morning I took my squad out and tried to die and
loused it up and got my second Purple Heart and Silver Star. I never got another
chance in Nam; they sent me home from the hospital with some neat embroidery on
this seam on my shoulder and a piece of paper that said I was a normal human
being again.
  Killing myself just didn't seem as reasonable in the States as it had in Nam
somehow, so I tried forgetting instead. For a while booze did the trick, but I
couldn't keep it up; my stomach wouldn't tolerate the dosage required. Then for
a while pot was a real help, but some ways made it worse: visions of spurting
blood and Sean's fingers and Steve boneless like a jello man. So I tried a hit
of coke, and that was just fine, and one day a spade who looked a lot like Steve
laid some smack on me. Heroin was just what I'd been looking for, and it wasn't
any surprise when I got a Jones, a habit I mean.
  But it's funny . . . I guess I really didn't want to kill myself at all. I
heard about this transcendental meditation stuff and started hanging around
Ananada Marga Yoga Society meetings, and boy, I kicked clean. Instead of getting
high on smack, I got high on big bites of bliss, which is cheaper, healthier,
legal and a much more satisfactory head all the way around.
  It was over a year before I noticed I wasn't accomplishing anything.
  But about that time I got lucky and took my Doctor Webster's advice and
started coming to Callahan's Place. Things started getting clearer in my head, a
lot clearer. Next thing I knew, I was on a stage giving a speech to the V . V .A
. W . , and I learned that there are things worth fighting and fighting for-but
fighting clean. I started giving talks and joining demonstrations and appearing
on T. V .I've been arrested four times, had my leg broken by a county cop, and
they took my name off the Native Sons Honor Roll in my home town. My father
won't talk to me-yet-and my phone is tapped.
  I feel great.

  ". . . and it's all thanks to you, Mr. Callahan," Tony finished.
  "Shucks, Tony," Callahan rumbled, "we didn't do anything for you that you
couldn't have done yourself."
  "You accepted me," Telasco said simply. "You made me understand that I was
just a normal human being who'd been caught up in a nightmare, a nightmare that
made him realize he had the makings of a killer ape in him. One night I told you
and your customers this whole story and you didn't stare at me like a mad dog.
You told me that I needed a bigger audience.
  "You showed me that it wasn't my killer nature that was shameful, but the
refusal to think things out that landed me in Nam in the first place. You showed
me that just because it took me a while to make the sort of decision Steve made
didn't mean that I didn't have Steve's kind of guts in me somewhere. I was sure
I didn't have that kind of guts, and so I never looked for them. When I did . .
. I found them. Because you had faith in me.
  "Jail is no picnic," he told the rest of us, "but I want to do what I can to
see that no one else gets caught in the meatgrinder like I did. But I don't do
it from guilt. I do it for its own sake." He looked at Callahan. "I already got
my absolution here."
  Callahan topped off his glass and slapped him on the back. "Well spoke, Tony,"
he boomed, and we all raised our glasses and toasted him in unison. The
fireplace exploded with glass when we were through.
  "I knew it," said the Doc, "as soon as I saw him dressed as a shepherd I knew
he had to be a vet." Groans arose, but the comic relief was timely.
  "If you don't pipe down some, Doc, he won't be the only hoarse doctor around
here," Callahan attempted.
  "Now, now," said the Doc. "I'm a happily married man. I don't fool around with
hoarse in either of our professional capacities."
  I started to ask if the Doc's capacities were truly professional, but before I
could, .Mickey Finn grabbed Callahan's shoulder so hard he winced-something
nobody else could have managed.
  "My friend Mike," Finn said urgently, "That person there, in the green
costume-it is not a costume. He is not human."
  Callahan blinked, and such jaws as were visible dropped like gallows
trapdoors. If anyone but Finn had said that-anywhere but Callahan's Place-we'd
have thought he was crazy or drunk.
  "I see further into the infrared range than you humans," Finn went on
hurriedly. "I was watching the currents of heat from the fireplace make patterns
in the air while I listened to your words, enjoying their lazy beauty . . . but
I just caught the green one watching them too. Close examination shows me that
his fur and features are genuine. Friends, this is an alien."
  We all stared at the green fellow, waiting for him to take off his mask and
say something. He looked human enough-the usual number of arms and legs I mean.
His mouth was a trifle too wide, now that I noticed, and the fur sure looked
awful real. If those pointed, oversized ears were glued on, I couldn't see
where.
  He looked back at us, put down his glass and shrugged knobby, tufted
shoulders. "There is no point in denying it, gentlemen. I am not human. In fact,
I came here tonight specifically to tell you how unhuman I am. The words I have
heard encouraged me to confess, but still I . . . hesitated. However, now that I
have been identified by another non-human, I suppose I must speak. Will you
listen?"
  Callahan spoke for all of us. "Mister, if you've got troubles, you're in the
right place. Go ahead."
  The green alien nodded. His eyes were deeply troubled.  "My name, gentlemen,"
he said in a pleasing tenor, "is Broodseven-Sub-Two Raksha, as well as it can be
translated into your tongue. I am . . . well, the profession does not really
exist as such here, but my function combines elements of sociologist,
psychologist, soldier and farmer. My people are the Krundai, and Krundar my home
is located so far from here that your instruments have not yet detected its sun.
There are several dozen Krundai on your planet, a team which has been here for
over two thousand years . . . a team of which I am the least member." He paused,
looked embarrassed.
  "What are you fellers doin' here?" Callahan asked.
  "That," said the alien hesitantly, "is what I have come here to tell you. It
is . . . it is not an easy thing to tell. I have spent almost thirty of your
years formulating my opinions in words and seeking someone to whom to speak
them. Fifteen of those years sufficed to eliminate as confidantes all of my
fellow Krundai; for another ten I debated whether I could conceivably unburden
myself to a human. Unable to resolve the question, I spent the last five years
picking those humans in whom I might confide. I found on your planet a total of
only two or three thousand humans who I felt might be able to understand and
help, and thirty-five of those are now present in this room.
  "All of you at this table are such."
  We looked around at each other, wondering whether we were all special or just
crazy in the same way. I sure didn't feel special.
  "Even now," Raksha went on, "I have not entirely resolved my debate. My
decision is much like that of Mr. Telasco, but it is further complicated in that
it could involve betraying my entire race. The presence of Mr. Finn, whom I find
to be, as he says, as non-human as myself, complicates things considerably-
although I suspect his origins may better enable him to empathize with me."
  He faced Finn. "Space holds many viewpoints, Finn. You seem to be a traveler,
of broader experience than these ephemerals. Will you try to understand me?"
  Finn looked him square in the eye. "I will listen."
  Raksha didn't seem to care much for that answer, but he nodded. He turned to
us. "Will you . . . all of you . . . swear that no word of what I tell you will
reach my fellow Krundai? I must warn you that confiding in other humans would
accomplish this thing."
  This time there was no more need for us to look around than there was for all
of us to speak. "Every man at this table can keep his lip buttoned," Callahan
said simply. "Speak your piece."
  The green furry alien looked us all over one last time, one after the other,
beginning and ending with Callahan. As his eyes met mine, I noticed for the
first time that the surfaces of them rippled with faintly glistening
semicircular lines, just like the one you look for when you're pouring coffee
into a dark cup. They shifted position in a different way than the specks on a
human eyeball do, independent of the motion of the eyes themselves. They scared
the hell out of me somehow, more than the fur and the oars did.
  He reached his decision.
  "Yes, gentlemen, you are right. Come what may, I must speak. If I can be
helped by any one, of any race, it is you. Brood help me if you cannot."
  I grabbed a pitcher and got half of it down before Bill and Sam snatched it
away.
  "I must begin," the alien went on, "by explaining to you some central facts
about my people.
  "First, we live much, much longer than humans. An average Krundai sees his
three-thousandth birthday before returning to the Great Pouch, and some have
lived as much as five or six centuries longer. I myself am well over eight
hundred years old, and I am the youngest Krundai on your world, having been born
here."
  "That explains how you know our language and idiom so well," I interrupted.
  "My four immediate ancestors had a hand in its creation," Raksha said drily.
  I shut up.
  "Second, as you may well imagine, we are a very patient people, by your
standards. Even allowing for the difference in our respective life-spans, we
move in much less haste than you, and plan projects in terms of how many of our
generations they will require to complete. Our concern is for the continuing
life of the race, rather than our individual lives, as the Broodmaster has
decreed.
  "Third, we have an ingrained loathing for killing or violence."
  That cheered me quite a bit, although I don't think I was really scared with
Finn around. That guy could maybe use this Earth to light a cigar with if he had
a mind to. Besides, if the Krundai had intended us harm, it seemed to me they'd
have done so centuries ago.
  "We realize," Raksha went on, "that such things must be: the prime datum of
the Universe is that life survives by eating life, and no other way. The expense
of eating is, in great part, the resistance the second life offers to being
eaten. For instance, the roast-beef sandwiches you have provided for your
friends, Mr. Callahan (and by the way they are easily the thickest I have ever
seen in a tavern) are currently quite expensive, because of the size and
unwieldiness of the system required to supply them to us.
  "Suppose you could induce the cow to come here and drop obligingly dead next
to your chopping block?
  "Still, there are always some who prefer not to do their own butchering. No
Krundai will do so voluntarily if it can be avoided. A surprising percentage of
your own society, with all your heritage of murder, would like to believe that
Life survives by going to the supermarket. So the ideal would be to train cattle
to make butcher knives and take turns cutting each other up at a convenient
location."
  I didn't like the turn this story was taking.
  "Which brings me to the fourth significant fact about my people. We have made
an exact science of sociopsychology, both Krundai and animal, and refined it
beyond your imagining. The closest things you have to it, I suppose, are what
you call mob psychology and the actuarial tables your insurance companies use,
and you do not even know why they work. The principles behind them, however, are
universal, and part of a grand picture which your race will probably never
perceive. One of your great writers invented something akin to it called
`psychohistory,' but even that unfulfilled daydream pales beside our knowledge-
for psychohistory worked only for humans, and could not predict the appearance
of genius or mutation. We can manipulate any sentient race that lives, produce
geniuses to order by manipulating society's laboratory conditions; and the
nature and causation of mutation are fundamentals of Krundai psychology.
  "Of course, like psychohistory, our science works best in the mass,
imperfectly with regard to individuals. You humans are at least aware of that
supreme paradox-that free will exists to an extent for the individual, but
disappears in the group-although you can't work with it. Brood!-you haven't even
learned how to measure emotion yet. But we can predict the effects of even one
man's actions on the society as a whole . . . and we know how to bring about the
effects we desire, large scale or small, long run or short.
  "Which leaves only one more basic attribute of my people: we are very, very
hungry."
  I had a ghastly feeling I knew what was coming next, and I didn't like it. The
horrible suspicion that Raksha's words were building in my brain answered far
too many questions I'd never been satisfactorily able to explain to myself
before.
  "So that's how that guy got elected," Callahan breathed, and I winced.
  "Precisely," Raksha agreed. "You begin to understand why I am here."
  "Lay it out, brother," Tony said grimly. "I think I get it, but I hope I'm
wrong."
  Raksha spread his hands. "Very simply, gentlemen, for nearly two thousand
years your planet has been a Krundai game preserve."
  "God bless my soul," said Doc Webster. I looked at Callahan: his face was
expressionless, but his eyes were like coals. Tomorrow that table would have
inch-deep fingerprints where Finn was holding it.
  "For most of that time," Raksha continued, "the Krundai stationed here made no
attempt to do more than control your population, inhibit your social evolution
and enforce your ignorance. A war here, a philosophical revolution there,
discredit a few thinkers and discourage a line of inquiry or two: elementary
maintenance. Rome, for instance, got entirely too civilized-even assassinating
Caesar didn't help enough. Before long it began to look like they were
developing a rudimentary medical science and cutting down the mortality rate.
  "So we induced cultural decay, and added some hungry barbarians we found
conveniently at hand. An earlier stroke of genius, supplying them with the
notion of leadbased waterpipes and wine-vats, paid off handsomely, and the
threat was ended.
  "We went on in this manner for hundreds of years, allowing just enough growth
to preserve vigor and letting you graze freely. We had quite a bit of trouble
with plagues-frankly, you're not very clean animals-and finally we decided to
let you play with medicine as a simpler solution than running around stamping
out an epidemic every few years. There was always war to use as a control and
culling device, and anyway, there was plenty of pasture.
  "About three hundred years ago, we were notified by Krundar to go into active
status and step up production. A food shortage had been predicted, and we were
told to expect at any time the order to begin harvesting the herd we had bred
and tended so long. We began incubating North America.
  "We tripled the usual propaganda to reproduce, filled the continent in an
absurdly short time, and encouraged immigration with a massive word-of-mouth
advertising campaign about the golden land across the sea, where freedom rang
and the streets were paved with gold. It took a bit of finagling to keep Britain
from flattening you at the start, but we were in-for us-a hurry. After the
requisite wars, we lowered the death-rate considerably to compensate, and began
to intensify our efforts.
  "A hundred years ago, we received the last command. We have been preparing you
to slaughter yourselves ever since."
  "Holy Jesus, it figures," Bill Gerrity cried.
  "You bet your sweet life it figures," I snarled. "After thousands of years of
recorded history, in seventy-five years we go from the Model T Ford to the
cobalt bomb and the energy crisis. From corn liquor to Quaaludes. From young
giant of a nation to tired old fraud. From . . ."
  "Knock it off, Jake," Callahan rapped.
  I shut my face. Callahan turned back to Raksha, put his huge meaty hands palm
down on the table. "Go on," he said darkly.
  The Krundai's fur bristled, and his eyes rolled in his head. Somehow through
my rage I understood that this denoted extreme shame in one of his race, and
began to cool off, remembering where I was. The air of calm he had worn was
shattered now; he was clearly agitated.
  "Humans, hear me!" he intoned. "Hear my sins, hear the full catalog of my
infamy before you judge. This is not easy to tell, and I must."
  "Let him speak," Finn said dispassionately.
  "We . . . I and others, I mean . . . instituted an explosive increase of
knowledge in the physical sciences, smothered or subverted all the social and
spiritual sciences. We cranked your technology to a fever pitch of frenzied
production, led you to build yourselves a suicidal ethic and culture, gave you
toys like the atom bomb and lysergic acid to play with: we gave a loaded gun to
an infant. We manipulated elections and revolutions, staged assassinations,
encouraged government to calcify beyond the ability of its people to endure,
touched off riots, provided you with news media that would carry the news of
growing cancer among you, and did all we could to bring into the minds of men a
frustration and a terror that would lead inevitably to chaos. You, the steers,
are nearly ready to butcher yourselves for our tables."
  "I don't believe it," the man in the fireman costume burst out. "This is
crazy, what you're saying is crazy, just plain nuts. What the hell is this
anyway, some kind of a rib?"
  "He's serious, Jerry," Callahan said calmly.
  "The hell he's serious, Mike, did you hear what he said? You telling me you
believe all this stuff?"
  "Jerry's right," the duck said. "This guy's nuts."
  "Oh, you fools!" Raksha burst out. "Are you too ignorant to see the pattern?
Your whole history makes sense only by positing the four most far-fetched
twistings and contradictions to human nature. Use Occam's Razor, by the Brood.
Could any race be so suicidal and have lived for this long? Do you really think
it accidental that your people went from outhouses to zero-gravity toilets in
half a century? From the Merrimac to Skylab in one short century? By our own
standards we have turned your planet upside-down in a twinkling-are your lives
so short that you have not perceived their acceleration? The pace of progress
yanks you ahead faster than you can run. Do you not notice?"
  Callahan looked across the crowded, oblivious room to Tom Hauptman behind the
bar. "Some of us notice," he said softly.
  The fireman shook his head. "I don't buy it. That sounds like some crazy sci-
fi notion. Conspiracy of aliens my foot, I don't believe in little . . . "
  ". . . green men?" Raksha finished. "The signs are everywhere around you,
Jerry. The squelching of the Air Force's study of unidentified flying objects
should have alerted anyone with eyes and ears-save that we had carefully
engendered a climate of ridicule and disbelief. We have become more cautious
since then. But look beyond the physical evidence: do you believe it blind
chance that physics has leaped vast spans while psychology muddled off into
blind alleys? Do you really believe man so incurious about himself that it has
taken him thousands of years to even begin a science of sociology? Do you think
it simply bad luck that the technology of your survival systems, of your food
and water and power distribution networks, consistently fail to keep pace with
population increase and are already strained to the failing point, even in the
face of a technical revolution?
  "Does it make sense that after living side by side with natural drugs and
hallucinogens of all types for millenia, men have suddenly become dependent on
them? Has the worldwide depression, economic and spiritual, escaped you? Does it
not surprise you that no language spoken by any people on Earth corresponds with
observable reality? Did you think the simultaneous collapse of an ages-old
ethical system and a two-century-old value system to be mere unfortunate
happenstance? You Broodless fool, did you really think God died of natural
causes?
  "No, my friend. Charles Fort was quite correct: you are property, and on the
whole not very bright property. You follow your political and philosophical
leaders blindly to the slaughter, grateful to be led, and one in a hundred of
you is a Telasco or a McConnell, with the sense to pull out of the mad death-
race. You must see it, man," he said to Telasco, "you rejected the world we
Krundai made for you."
  "Jerry," I said, "one of my most precious possessions is a lapel-button, white
with black letters. It says 'Go Lemmings Go.' Raksha is telling the truth."
  The fireman shook his head like an enraged bull. "This is crazy," he insisted.
"How can you be telling us all this? I mean, if you're right, what makes you
think we won't tear you to pieces?"
  "This is Callahan's Place," the alien said simply. "I am here for absolution."
  That brought us all up short, even Jerry. He stiffened; his mouth opened but
there were no words in it.
  "Why?" cried Doc Webster in agony. "How could a race so old and wise be so
savage and murderous?"
  "We are not," Raksha returned, agony in his own voice. "You kill animals for
food-we ourselves have never killed."
  "People are not animals," Tony said with quiet force.
  "To my people you are," insisted the green one. "You lack a . . . an attribute
for which there are naturally no words in your tongue. That attribute is central
to the Krundai; without it, even if you went to the Great Pouch at the end of
your days, you could not suck. To us you are less-than-Krundai. The Sign of the
Brood is not upon you: you are food. My people feel no more guilt over
engineering your destruction than you would if you could talk a cow into
butchering itself."
  "Why all this dancing around?" Callahan asked him
  "Why not just wipe us out? Sounds to me like you've got the moxie."
  "I have told you," Raksha cried. "We abhor violence. The fact that you can be
inducted to inflict it upon yourselves, is, to us, proof that you are food,
less-than-Krundai. If you and other races did not spare us the necessity, we
should be forced to kill our own food like beasts. But the Great Brood saw our
needs and fashioned the lesser races to breed and feast upon, without the need
to nurture violence in our own hearts. First the winged, heat-seekingfeegh of
Krundar, which fell from the skies into our fires; then the blue-skinned ones of
our neighbor planet, who destroyed their atmosphere just before developed
interplanetary travel; then the Krill from a nearby solar system, who warred to
extinction among themselves. It has, always been so; it is unforgivably bad form
to slay one's own meat oneself. It indicates that one is not in the favor of the
Brood."
  "When did your people begin sort of . . . encouraging the food into the pot?"
Callahan asked.
  "So long ago that it would be meaningless to you," Raksha told him. "We
learned early that the gifts of the Brood are not free; we must labor for them,
to earn a place in the Pouch."
  "I still don't see how you could have done it," Jerry said, baffled but
obviously believing now, convinced by the pain in the furry alien's voice and
the aura of shame around him.
  "In the same way that a statesman can be induced to do what he knows is
insane," Raksha explained, "by appealing subtly to his own self-interest. We ran
a continuous and subtle propaganda campaign, took away any valid reason for
living other than personal enrichment and comfort, and then saw to it that the
immediate personal interest of millions of people served our ends. One of the
simplest methods was to install in an enormous number of people the compulsion
to amass more money than they could possibly use: enough were successful to
leech national economies into anemia. Another was to whip up an intense interest
in sex, far beyond the demands of nature, to keep population-growth beyond your
capacity to adapt. Much work was required to squelch interest in space-programs
before they could provide an escape valve. You humans are so short-sighted, your
lives themselves so short. It is easy to manipulate you."
  "So what changed your mind?" Callahan asked. "You personally, I mean. If we
ain't fit for this here Pouch, why are you spilling the beans?
  "I . . . I . . ." he stammered.
  "We're nothing but dumb animals, right? Well, Colonel Sanders doesn't
apologize to the chickens-why are you here?"
  The green man groped for words, his pointed ears waving nervously.
  "I . . . I don't know," he said at last. "░I cannot satisfactorily explain it
to myself. There is a climate of belief which runs all through your thought and
literature, a conviction that you humans have a higher destiny. This idea has
been of use to the Krundai many times, but we did not plan it; it was there when
we came. It may be that it is contagious. I do not know; there is something
about you humans, a . . . a curious dignity that upsets my heart and troubles my
nights."
  Finn spoke up, startling me. "I think I know what you mean, friend Raksha," he
said in that flat voice of his. "Michael," he went on, turning to Callahan, "do
not be so certain that Colonel Sanders does not apologize to his chickens, as
you put it. I have myself brought about the extermination of several races, in
the days when I served the Masters, and yet last week when I slaughtered my
pigs, I grieved for them. They were stupid and dirty and mute-but even a pig may
have dignity.
  "They did not, could not, comprehend why they died-and yet in an irrational
way I wished I could explain it to them." He turned, spoke again to the furry
Krundai. "I believe I understand your motivation," he said. "I felt it too,
once, and forebore to destroy this world. It seemed a planet of madmen-although
much of that appears to be the doing of you and yours. But I knew that not, for
you were well-hidden.
  "Yet still I stayed the hands of my Masters, betrayed my purpose, because I
learned here in this room that men have love."
  "That is the quality I selected for in a human audience," Raksha admitted.
"The thing you call love we Krundai had always found to be a symptom of the
attribute I spoke of earlier. That humans possess the symptom without the
attribute is one of the great anomalies that complicated my thought and delayed
my confession until now."
  "This propaganda stuff you talked about," Callahan persisted. "I still want to
know how you put it across. Whisper in the Wright Brothers' car? Write newspaper
editorials? Spead rumors?"
  "Sometimes," Raksha said, and hesitated. His features assumed a deeper green.
"And sometimes," he went on with obvious reluctance, "by direct intervention."
  "Disguised as humans, you mean? Fifth column and that?" The big Irishman
seemed to be prompting, seeking something from Raksha that I couldn't figure
out.
  "All the Krundai on your world have, at one time or another, impersonated
humans for varying reasons. One of us was Saul of Tarsus, another Torquemada,
another Thomas Edison. Otto Hahn was yet another."
  "And you," Callahan bored on impacably. "Who were you?"
  I remembered suddenly how long ago Raksha had said he began to regret his job,
and my blood went cold as ice.
  "I. . ." he said, biting the words off with an effort, "I was known to men as
Adolph Hitler."
  The silence was a living thing that gnawed at our reason, paralyzed our
thought. All around us a Halloween party continued insanely, heedless men
laughing and dancing, the four gorillas in the corner playing poker. There was
not a damn thing any of us could say, and after a time Raksha went on
listlessly, "It was an easy role to play. It took no significant fraction of the
training I had received in crowd control. It was so easy that I had time to
think, to observe, to learn first-hand what I was doing.
  "Perhaps it was because I was born here, and have seen Krundar only once. For
whatever reason, I began to doubt; subconscious uncertainty spoiled my work. The
major purpose of that campaign was to prolong hostilities long enough to force
the development of atomic weapons, and I nearly succeeded in aborting the
mission by folding too quickly. But my colleagues were able to redeem my error
by drawing out the Pacific conflict just long enough. I told myself my
depression was the stigma of personal failure, but I knew in my heart that it
was in fact the repair of my mistakes that unsettled me. I have thought on it
long and hard since, and now I am here and I have spoken."
  Doc Webster produced a hipflask from somewhere on the south slope of his
belly, upended it and slapped it down empty. On all sides of us, people drank
and chattered and laughed, oblivious to the drama in their midst.
  The Doc found his voice someplace; it sounded rusty.
  "What do you want from us?" he croaked.
  "Absolution."
  I looked at Tony and Jerry and Finn, winced as I thought for the first time in
months of my dead wife and child, killed years ago in a crash when the brakes I
installed myself to save a buck failed in traffic. This was the place for
absolution, all right-it was Callahan's stock in trade. And this seemed like our
greatest challenge.
  The brawny Irishman's voice shocked me when he spoke: it was as cold and hard
as an axe-handle in February. "That word has another word in it," he said.
"Solution. First let's find a solution, and then absolution will take care of
itself. How can you stop this pogrom?"
  Raksha's fur bristled; he looked flustered. "I cannot," he wailed.
  "Can't you talk your people out of this?" Sam Thayer asked. "Won't they listen
to you?"
  "Impossible," the alien said flatly. "They could not conceivably understand my
words . . . I am not sure I do myself. Have vegetarians made any real impact on
your planet?"
  "They have wherever they could convince folks that a cow might have a soul,"
the Doc asserted.
  "But you do not have the attribute," Raksha insisted.
  "I don't know what the hell this 'attribute' is," Callahan growled, "but I get
the idea we have the potential for it; the symptoms, I believe you said. Could
it be we never developed it because our people have been under the . . .
protection of yours since our infancy?"
  "No Krundai would believe that," Raksha replied. "If I voiced such an opinion,
I would be judged insane and induced to suicide."
  "Can you sabotage the campaign?" Telasco asked. "Join our side and do the
guerrilla? With you to help we might . . ."
  "No," Raksha said violently. "I cannot betray my people. It is unthinkable."
  "It was unthinkable for me once," Tony persisted. "But when I saw what I had
become, I repudiated what my people were doing, worked to stop it."
  "Me too," Jerry chimed in.
  "You do not understand," Raksha hissed. "You are not-Krundai-and this Finn may
belong to a powerful, warlike race for all I know. I have committed an
unthinkable crime by relying on your discretion and telling you all this-I can
do no more."
  Tony had a soldier's tactical mind. "Can you tell us where and how to locate
your people? We'll stop them."
  Finn spoke up before Raksha could answer. "That is not . . ."
  "Possible," Callahan finished quickly, and I got the funny idea he'd kicked
Finn's shin under the table. "If these boys led us by the hand to the atom bomb,
there ain't a lot we can do to stop 'em, Tony."
  "But . . . ouch," said Finn, and shut up.
  "No," Callahan went on, "if anyone can help us, Raksha, it's you. Or did you
just fall by to make a headsman's apology?"
  "I can do nothing for you," Raksha said miserably. "I seek only absolution."
  "Brother," I said sympathetically, "you're caught between a falling rock and a
hard place." Sam and the Doc also began to make noises of commiseration, and
Bill Gerrity started to ask Raksha what he was drinking. Just the men of
Callahan's, offering understanding and help, as always.
  But Callahan raised a hand. "No," he said quietly.
  We stared at him, stunned. Callahan withholding absolution?
  "You can't drink in my bar, brother," he said, staring Raksha in the eye, "and
you can't have our forgiveness. There's a price for absolution on this planet,
and it's called penance. Tony here gets arrested for joining demonstrations;
Jerry has chucked away a pot-full of money he was making in real estate and
started lobbying for green-belts and cluster housing; Finn here exiled himself
among a lot of obnoxious, smelly humans for the sake of the ones worth saving.
Buddhist monks who couldn't influence their governments any other way set
themselves on fire, by Christ, and for their souls I pray on Sunday. What do you
figure to do for atonement?"
  Raksha closed his eyes-they were doublenictitating-and knotted his brow. He
was silent for a long time.
  "There is nothing I can do," he said at last, his voice hollow and bleak.
  "Then there is no absolution for you," Callahan said flatly, "here or
anywhere. Get out o' my joint and don't come back."
  Raksha's face fell, and for a timeless moment I thought he was going to cry,
or whatever Krundai do that's like crying. But he got a hold of himself, nodded
once, rose and left the bar, shouldering party-people aside as he went.
  There was another silence when he had gone, and we all looked at Callahan. His
jaw was set, and his eyes flashed, challenging us to criticize his judgment.
  "Were . . . weren't you a little harsh on the guy, Mike?" Doc Webster asked
after a while.
  "Hell, Doc," Callahan exploded, "that clown was Adolph Hitler! You want me to
pat him on the head and say it's all right, you were only following orders?
Christ on a minibike, if it wasn't for him and his kind, I might not have to run
this goddamned bar. And my bunions give me the dickens."
  "I grieve for him," Finn said tonelessly. "I too was once in a similar
position."
  "Save your grief, Finn," Callahan spat. "You had the same choice, but you
followed through. And you weren't gutless-you were counterprogrammed. If you
could figure out a way around the sheer physical limitations of your machinery,
why the hell couldn't he overcome his conditioning? Conditioning isn't an
excuse, for Krundai any more than for humans-it's an explanation. Thanks to you
and the work-you're doing, the Gaspe Peninsula may be prosperous farmland some
day. You're still paying your dues. But that guy didn't want to atone, just
apologize. He and his kind made this sorry old world what it is today, and maybe
I could forgive that. But I don't give absolution free. It costs, costs you
right in the old will power, and he wasn't willing to ante up. Fuck him, and the
horse he rode in on."
  "I still think we should have jollied him along and tried to pump him, Mike,"
Tony said insistently. "How are we going to find them to stop them now?"
  Callahan looked tired. "As Finn started to say before I tromped on his toes,
that ain't necessary. Now Finn knows they're here, he can find 'em for us as
easy as you could spot a wolf in a chicken coop. That wasn't the prob. . ."
  There came a shattering roar from outside. The building rocked; glass sprayed
inward from the windows and bottles danced behind the bar. Everyone began to
shout at once, and most of the boys made a bee-line for the door.
  Only Callahan of all of us failed to jump. "Like I said, no guts,"- he said
softly.
  He rose quietly, walked through the suddenlyuncrowded bar the chalk line
before the fireplace, picking up someone's drink as he went. He looked surreally
absurd in that damned bear-suit he still had on, balding red head sticking out
the top like a partially digested meal. He stood gazing into the flames for a
moment, gulped the raw liquor and spoke in a clear, resonant baritone.
  "To cowardice," he said, and flung the empty glass against the back wall of
the fireplace with a savageness I had never seen in him before.
  Fast Eddie stuck his head in the door. "Jeezis Christ, boss, de whole
unprintable parkin' lot blew up."
  "I know, Eddie," Callahan said gently. "Thanks. Anybody hurt?"
  Eddie scratched his head. "I don't t'ink so," he allowed, "but dere's a lotta
dead cars."
  "Least of my worries," Callahan assured him. "Call the cops, will you? Tell
'em whatever you like." Eddie got busy on the phone.
  Callahan came back to our table, stood over Finn. "Well, buddy, what do you
say? Can you take 'em?"
  Finn looked up at him for a while, figuring some things.
  "That blast was powerful, Michael. They must have strong defenses."
  "That's why I stepped on your toes and let that joker go, Mickey. If you two
tangled in here, we'd have lost a lot more'n a few cars we can't gas anyway. But
you heard what he said about violence."
  "They abhor it," Finn agreed. "Even if they will employ it in self-defense,
they are unused to it. Michael, I can take them. I will."
  He rose and left the bar.
  "Thanks, Mickey," Callahan called after him. I reckon your dues are paid in
full."
  There's been a lot of noise in the papers lately about the series of seismic
shocks that have been recorded over the past few weeks in the unlikeliest
places. An unpredicted miniquake every day or two for three weeks, culminating
in a blockbuster where no quake had a right to be, is bound to cause talk.
  The seismologist confess themselves baffled. Some note that none of the quakes
took place in a densely populated area, and are reassured. Some note the
uniquely powerful though strictly local intensity of the shocks, and are
perturbed. Some note the utter inability of their science to explain the quakes
even after the fact, and fear the end of the world is at hand.
  But me and some of the boys at Callahan's Place suspect it's more like the
beginning.








                                       9

                           The Wonderful Conspiracy

  I used to think that almost anything could happen at C allahan's Place. It
wasn't long before I realized the truth: that anything can happen at Callahan's
Place . . . and not long after that it was made clear to me that anything can
happen at Callahan's.
  But I confess I was still surprised the night I learned that A*N*Y*T*H*I*N*G
can happen at Callahan's Place -and that, sooner or later, it probably will.
  It was New Year's Eve, a natural time for introspection I guess. The Place was
virtually empty, for the first time in a long while. Now that might strike you
as downright implausible, but it's just another one of the inexplicable
eccentricities of Callahan's that stop startling you after you've been hanging
out there awhile. You see, the kind of guys that come in there regularly, if
they've got families, tend to spend holidays with 'em at home.
  It's that kind of crowd.
  There are, of course, a handful who don't have families, and aren't willing to
settle for the surrogate of a date, so Callahan stays open on holidays-but I'm
sure he runs a net loss. This particular New Year's Eve, the entire congregation
consisted of him, me, Fast Eddie, the Doc and Long-Drink McGonnigle.
  Funny. You take men who already consider themselves deep and true friends:
they've been drinking together regularly for many years, have experienced some
memorable moments in each other's company, have given each other an awful lot.
And yet somehow, on a night when there's just a few of them, there because they
have no better place to be, such men can find an even deeper level of sharing;
can, perhaps, truly become brothers. At such times they relax the shoulders of
their souls, and turn their collective attention to those profound questions
that can overawe a man alone. They bring out their utterly true selves. We
shared a rich plane of awareness that night, Callahan behind the bar and the
rest of us sitting together in front of it, lost in the glow of that special
kind of intimacy that drink and good company bring, looking back over the year
gone by and talking of nothing in general and everything in particular. What we
were doing, we were telling dumb puns.
  It started when Callahan taped over the cash-box a hand-lettered sign that
read, "the buck stops here. "
  "Oh boy," rumbled the Doc, "I can see there'll be no quarter given tonight."-
which is a pun because he chucked his glass into the fireplace as he said it,
which meant the cigar-box at the end of the bar held at least two quarters that
he wouldn't be given tonight.
  Long-Drink got up and walked to the chalk line, and I assumed he wanted to
give Doc's stinker the honor of a formal throw. I should have known he was
setting us up. He toed the mark, announced, "To the poor corpuscle," drained his
glass, and waited.
  The Doc had reflexively drained the fresh glass Callahan had already supplied
unasked-Doc will drink to anything, sight unseen-but he paused with his arm in
midthrow. "Wait a minute," he said. "Why the hell should I .drink to `the poor
corpuscle'?"
  "He labors in vein," Long-Drink said simply.
  "Ah yes," I said without missing a beat, "but he vessles vhile he vorks."
  "Plasma soul," exclaimed Callahan.
  The Doc's eyes got round and his jaw hung down. "By god," he said at last,
"I've never been outpunned by you rummies yet, and I'm not about to go down on
medical puns. As a doctor I happen to know for certain there's only one other
blood pun-I got it straight from the Auricle of Delphi."
  There was an extended pause, and I was saying to myself, yep, as usual, no one
can top the Doc-when all of a sudden Fast Eddie spoke up. Now you have to
understand that while he's a genius at the piano, lightning wit has never been
Eddie's strong suit; I don't think I'd ever heard him attempt a pun in the
presence of so many masters.
  But he by God opened his mouth and said with the nearest thing to a straight
face he owns, "Well I dunno about youse guys, but anemia drink."
  And even then he was not done, because while the Doc spluttered and the rest
of us roared, Callahan quietly went into the gag that-unknown to us-Eddie had
worked out with him before the rest of us arrived. Instead of Eddie's usual
shot, the barkeep mixed him a drink, and served it with a wooden chopstick
jutting out of the glass.
  "What the hell kind of a drink is that?" Doc Webster demanded grumpily. And
Eddie delivered it magnificently.
  "A hickory dacquiri, Doc."
  And the laughter of a mere three of us nearly blew out the windows.

  The Doc was a good sport about it. In fact, he laughed so hard at himself that
he lost three shirt buttons. But you could tell he was severely shaken: he paid
for the next round. I felt as though I'd just seen a bulldozer to a tapdance
myself. The world is full of surprises, I told myself.
  Callahan put it even more succinctly. "It's a miracle," he whooped, setting up
fresh glasses. "A genuine damn miracle."
  Long-Drink snorted. "Miracles are a dime a dozen in this joint."
  "You know, Drink," I said suddenly, "you said a mouthful:"
  "Hah?"
  "Miracles. That's Mike's stock-in-trade. This is the place where nothing is
impossible."
  "Horse feathers," Callahan said.
  "No, I'm serious, Mike. I can think of half a dozen things that've happened in
here in the past year that I wouldn't have believed for a minute if they'd
happened anywhere else."
  "That's sure true enough," the Doc said thoughtfully. "Little green men . . .
two time travelers . . . Adolph Hitler . . ."
  "That's not exactly what I mean, Doc," I interrupted. "Those things're highly
improbable, but if they could happen here, they could happen anywhere. What I
mean is that, barring Raksha, every one of those jokers that walked in cryin'
walked out smilin'-and even he could have, if he'd been willing to pay the
freight. By me, that's a miracle."
  "I don't getcha," said Eddie, wrinkling up his face. Even more, I mean.
  "Take that business of Jim and Paul MacDonald. Near as I can see, they
represent the basic miracle of Callahan's Place, the greatest lesson this joint
has taught us."
  "What's dat?"
  "That there's nothing in the human heart or mind, no place no matter how
twisted or secret, that can't be endured-if you have someone to share it with.
That's what this place is all about: helping people to open up whatever cabinets
in their heads hold their most dangerous secrets, and let 'em out. If you've got
a hurt and I've got a hurt and we share 'em, some-crazy-how or other we each end
up with less than half a hurt apiece." I took a sip of Bushmill's. "That's what
Callahan's Place has to offer-and as far as I know, there's no place like it in
all the world."
  "I know one place kinda like it," Long-Drink said suddenly.
  "What? Where?"
  "Oh, I don't know that you'd spot the resemblance right off-I sure didn't. But
did any o' you guys ever hear of The Farm?"
  "I was raised on one," the Doc said.
  "We know-in the barn," Long-Drink said drily. "I ain't talking' about a farm.
I mean The Farm-place down in Tennessee. Better'n eight hundred people livin' on
a couple o' thousand acres. One of 'em's my daughter Anne, an' I went down to
visit her last month."
  "One of them communes?" the Doc asked skeptically.
  "Not like I ever heard of," Long-Drink told him. "They ain't got no house
brand o' religion, for one thing-Anne still goes to Mass on Sundays. For another
thing, them folks work. They feed themselves, an' they build their own houses,
an' they take care of business. The heaviest drug I saw down there was pot, and
they wasn't using that for recreation-said it was a sacrament."
  "Tennessee," I said, and whistled. "They must get a hard time from the
locals."
  "Not on your tintype. The locals love 'em. I spoke with the Lewis County
sheriff, and he said if everybody was as decent and truthful and hard-working as
the Farm folk, he'd be out of a job. I tell you, I went down there loaded for
bear, ready to argue Annie into givin' up her foolishness and comin' on home.
Instead I almost forgot to leave."
  "So what's all that got to do with this joint?" Callahan asked.
  "Well, it's, like Jake was sayin' about sharing, Mike. Them folks share
everything they got, an' the only rule I noticed was that a body that was
hurtin' some way was everybody's number one priority. They . . . ' He paused,
looked thoughtful. "They care about each other. Eight hundred people, and they
care about each other -and the whole damn world, too. That kind of thing's been
out of style since Flower Power wilted."
  "Aw nuts," the Doc exclaimed. "Another one of them fool nut cults is what it
sounds like to me. They never last."
  "I dunno," Long Drink disagreed. "They been goin' for about five years now,
and they just started setting up colonies, like: "Satellite Farms" they call
'em, better'n half a dozen, all over the country." He paused, looking
thoughtful. "What got me, though, was how little attention they paid to their
physical growth. That just seemed to happen by itself; while they put their real
attention on the Main Game: gettin' straight with each other, so's they could
live together. Seems to me like the whole world oughta be doin' that. Seems like
if you be a better person, you have you a better life. Seemed to me like The
Farm was Callahan's Place for hippies."
  "You're crazy," the Doc burst out. "Sure, there's a thousand ham-headed gurus
creepin' out from under every burning bush these days. The old-time religion
went into the drink, so they're scratching for a new one like hungry hens, goin'
in for mysticism and the occult and astrology and the late God only knows what-
all. But I'm damned if I see the resemblance between a Jesus-freak revival
meeting and this here bar."
  "Doc, Doc," I said softly, "Slow down a bit. Yes, they're mass-producing
religions like popcorn these days, and some of them are as plain silly as the
sixteen-year-old perfect goombah with his divine Maserati and his sacred ulcer.
But that don't make 'em all crazy. The point is that all them con-men must be
filling some kind of powerful need, or they'd be working some more profitable
grift. And I think I agree with Long-Drink: the need they're filling is the same
one that brings folks to Callahan's Place."
  "Hmmph," the Doc snorted. "And what need is that, pray tell?"
  "It's pretty easy to see. For the last century or two we turned our attention
to the physical world, to mastering the material plane at the expense of
anything else. A lot of that, I'm compelled to believe, had to do with Raksha
and his kind, but the tendency was there to exploit. And so we've got a world in
which physical miracles are commonplace-and nobody's happy. We got what it takes
to feed the whole three billion of us-and half of us are starving. You can show
a dozen guys murderin' each other on TV but you can't ever show two people
making love. A naked blade is reckoned to be less obscene than a naked woman.
Ain't it about time we started trying to get a handle on love, from any and all
directions?
  "I don't know how come this Farm doesn't collapse like all the other communes.
I don't know how come a government with the best propaganda machine ever built
failed to sell a war to a country, for the first time in history. I don't know
how come three or four guys managed to pull down a corrupt thug of a president.
I don't even understand how come all the things this here bar stands for haven't
been drowned under a sea of the drunks and brawlers and hookers and hoodlums
every other bar gets, why the only people that seem to come here are the ones
that need to, that ought to, that have to. That's the real miracle of this
joint, you know, not our telepaths and little green men!
  "I can't explain any of this stuff, Doc, but couldn't it be that there's some
kind of new force loose on the world, like a collective-unconscious response to
Raksha and the Krundai, a new kind of energy that's trying to put us all back on
the right track before it's too late? Couldn't it be that, now we've climbed out
on a material-plane limb and started sawing at it, some mysterious force is
trying to teach us how to fly? Whether it's our own stupidity or Krundai
manipulation, we've stumbled across things that make a cobalt bomb look
harmless: the human race is an idiot child in an arsenal. Couldn't it possibly
be that under all these pressures, we're beginning to grow up?"
  "Days what I loined from Rachel," Fast Eddie spoke up suddenly, startling me-I
was so wrapped up in my own eloquence, I'd even forgotten my customary drawl and
folksy speech-patterns.
  "What do you mean, Eddie?" Callahan asked.
  "Everybody's got roots in de past," Eddie explained. "But dey's got roots in
de future too."
  There was an awed silence. "I'll be damned," Callahan said after awhile.
"That's twice in one night you've surprised me, Eddie. I never thought there was
anything but music in that head o' yours. Guess even I can learn something in
this joint." He shook his head and poured himself another shot.
  Long-Drink tried to lighten the mood some. "I'll teach you something, Mike.
What do you get when you put milk of magnesia in a glass of vodka?"
  The Doc made a face. "Everybody knows that one: a Phillips screwdriver. The
hell with that stuff: I want to hear more about this `collective-unconscious'
jazz."
  Long-Drink grinned. "Sounds like this place to a T."
  "Can it, I said. That `mysterious force' stuff you were talkin' about, Jake-
did you mean that literally?"
  I thought about it. "You mean like a gang of sixthcolumn missionaries, Doc? A
bunch of guys working undercover like Raksha an' his friends, only in reverse?
No, I don't really think that's the way of it . . . wups!"
  Reaching for my glass without looking, I knocked it skittering across the bar,
and leaped to grab it before it could fall into Callahan's lap. I froze for a
moment, leaning half-over the bar-but I've always rather prided myself in being
quick on the uptake.
  " . . . on the other hand," I continued calmly, "maybe that's exactly right.
Who knows?"
  And Callahan-who was still sitting as I had seen him, his legs folded under
him in the full lotus, suspended a good three feet off the floor-winked, poured
my glass brimfull of Bushmill's, and grinned.
  "Not me," he lied, and puffed on his cigar.
  "Hey youse guys," cried Eddie, eyes on the clock above us, "Happy New Year!"